“Do you know of anyone who might assist him in exacting revenge?”

  “I don’t. He hasn’t been in my life nor I in his—thank God—for eighteen years other than that single, ugly conversation. I honestly can’t help you, and I would.”

  She believed him.

  “I appreciate you taking the time to talk with me.”

  “No problem. If I could add something?”

  “Please.”

  “He’s a dangerous man, but only to those he sees as weaker. Because like so many bullies, he’s also a coward. I was the younger brother, someone he saw as weaker—and he wasn’t wrong for a number of years. My mother’s a woman, so weaker. His ex, a woman, so weaker. It’s unlikely he’d see this police captain as weaker and follow through. Even if he could find a way.”

  “Thank you for your input.”

  “Good luck.”

  She sat back, thinking it through as she wrote it up.

  Milrod, unlikely. Not smart enough. No finances to buy even a cheap, sloppy hit.

  She glanced over as Roarke stepped in. “Maybe you’re having better luck than I am.”

  “I doubt you’ll see it that way.” Since it was there, he picked up her coffee, drank some. “Arnez and Robards. There’s nothing in their finances that veers off the norm. She’s worked, at least part-time, since she was fifteen. She, and her mother, as I checked, cobbled enough together for college, which she did primarily by remote and added more working hours. She’s solid enough financially.”

  He set her coffee back down, decided to switch to water for a bit.

  “She’s moved around in jobs, as you know, but strategically. No hidden accounts, no odd deposits or withdrawals. She pays her bills on time. Other than rent, her biggest expenditure is wardrobe, which given her career track makes sense.

  “Her mother relocated to Georgia with her cohab about four years ago. I didn’t find any travel there on her part, so assume they’re not close.”

  “No family pictures I saw in her apartment. Not any.”

  “That would track, wouldn’t it? She’s lived in New York all her life. She had grandparents on both sides, but none live in the area and, again, there’s no travel to indicate visits.”

  “Not all families are families.”

  “Truer words,” he agreed. “Robards, however, continues to work as a mechanic in his old neighborhood, very near his family. And his finances show he supports them, generously when he’s able. He makes a good living through his employment, adds to it by restoring and selling classic cars. He’s enterprising and apparently skilled. He does quite well for himself.

  “Again, there’s nothing shady in his finances. I have to tell you that angle’s a dead end.”

  “Okay, if there’s nothing there, there’s nothing. What about the grandparents? Arnez?”

  “Her maternal grandparents—divorced. She lives in Reno, and he in Memphis. Paternal, still married, relocated to Wisconsin, where the grandmother had family, about twenty years ago. They’ve since retired to Tampa, Florida. Again, no travel connecting either way, no sign of financial gifts or assistance. I can’t tell you if they’re in contact with each other, but it seems doubtful given the rest.”

  “Okay. All right.” Getting stuck after hitting a dead end equaled stubborn. Or stupid. “I’ve got to move on.”

  “Why don’t I help you with that?”

  “I can give you some names. You could stick with finances.”

  “My favorite thing.” Because he could all but see the tension in her shoulders, he stepped behind her to rub them.

  “But do you really think money’s the angle?”

  “It’s going to be a cop, or someone connected to one. I still think the easiest way to gain access to the Greenleaf apartment and, to their routine, is from the building, or a neighboring one. I’ve run the tenants in the building, and nothing pops. But say there’s something hinky in their finances? Income or outlay—payment for the kill, or payment out for some sort of blackmail. Or an addiction that could be exploited.”

  “All right then, I’ll look. Send me the names. Two hours more. Two hours,” he repeated, “then we call it. You’re losing that post-dinner boost.”

  “Maybe. But there’s coffee.”

  “Two hours more,” he repeated as he started back to his office. “It’s a fair deal.”

  Since it was, and his work would save her a lot of time, she didn’t argue.

  She dug in, continued the process of working back in time. The odds, she calculated, favored someone with a fresher grudge. Alternately, someone released from prison within the last three to five years.

  She pushed on both, using a split screen. She managed a few more ’link conversations because she remembered the Earth rotated on its stupid axis.

  By the time she’d used up her two hours, she felt she’d eliminated or shot several names to the bottom of the list.

  “I know, I know,” she said when Roarke came back in. “I’m just wrapping up. I’ve eliminated four, five with Brenner, and have three more very low probability. I only want to look through what you just sent me.”

  “I can run it down for you.” He took her hand, tugged her to her feet. “My best calculations,” he continued as he walked her out of the office, “take another three off your suspect list, and leave one more in that dead-low probability. You can look at the names and the data in the morning.”

  “Great. Only half a million to go. No, seriously, it’s good, solid progress. And you adding another three or four to it helps. Peabody and McNab came through on the deal. So more names to check, but they started the elimination process, so it’s almost a wash there.”

  The cat stretched over the bed. He slitted one eye open, then closed it again as Eve shrugged out of her weapon harness.

  “And I’ve got two we’re going to want to interview. Maybe we get lucky.”

  She sat on the side of the bed to take off her boots.

  “Making good, solid progress gave me another boost.”

  “Did it now?”

  “It did. And it occurs to me we haven’t kicked the cat off the bed in over three weeks.”

  He sat beside her. “We wouldn’t want to spoil him, would we?”

  “No.” She swung around, straddled him. “You know what I think?”

  “I’m getting a glimmer of an idea.”

  “Bet it’s more than a glimmer.”

  She took his mouth with hers, enjoying the moment.

  Their house, their bed, their soon-to-be annoyed cat.

  Work waited, but for morning. The night was theirs, too.

  “Nice shirt,” she commented as she worked open buttons. “So I’m resisting just ripping it open.”

  “I have more shirts.”

  “And still. It’s good to be home.” She peeled the shirt away, tugged the leather tie out of his hair. “Even with the last—what—twenty-six hours, give or take, it’s good to be home.”

  He drew her shirt up and away. “The Grecian sun’s given you a glow.” He trailed a finger over her cheek, down the shallow dent in her chin, along her throat.

  “New York will take care of that before too long.”

  “So I’ll enjoy it while it lasts.”

  And he pressed his lips to her throat. Then shifted, flipped her so she lay back on the bed.

  Galahad grunted, leaped down, stalked away.

  It made her smile.

  “He ought to be used to it by now. Then again…” She drew Roarke down with her. “I don’t think I’ll ever get all the way used to it, either.”

  Because it was always new, he thought when their lips met again. Gloriously familiar, and still brilliantly new. The taste of her, the feel of her skin, the shape of her—he’d find her in a world of dark. And still, the thrill of having her could strike fresh and sharp each time, every time.

  They rolled over the bed, playful now even as pulses thickened. Her heart beat strong and fast under his lips; her hands moved quick and firm over his back, down his hips.

  They took each other deeper—little nips, long strokes until he felt himself simply merge with her. Beat for beat, breath for breath.

  When he slipped inside her, a slow joining, she cupped his face in her hands.

  She saw everything in his eyes, that wild Irish blue. Everything she felt lived in them, everything she brought to him, all they gave and took from each other.

  Need lived there, and desire. That would always be a thrill. But love, so steady, so endless, so real, dominated all. And that would always, always be a wonder.

  For a moment, her body burned, simply burned with all of it. Then the burning became a drenching warmth that rolled her to peak, rocked her there, let her fall, then rise again.

  And all, all of everything, shined inside her while their eyes held.

  He said her name, only her name, before their lips met again.

  The moment he let himself go, she wrapped tight and went with him.

  Chapter Eleven

  Her body clock popped her awake before dawn, again.

  Beside her, the sheets felt cool enough to tell her Roarke had been up, dressed, and in his office for some time.

  Curled in the small of her back, Galahad slept on.

  She called for lights at ten percent, rolled out, and hit the bedroom AutoChef for coffee.

  Since she was up in what felt like the middle of the damn night, she might as well do something. She pulled on gym shorts, a tank and, with the coffee, took the elevator down to the gym.

  She decided on a three-mile run and, drinking coffee, scrolled through the programs. She chose one set in New York called Flight or Fight.

  Silence fell on Fifth Avenue under a blazing summer sun. Old flyers, takeaway cups, mangled shopping bags scuttled or fluttered along the empty streets. Display windows in the Midtown shopping mecca showed frozen-faced mannequins in sparkly dresses and sleek suits.

  Or, behind shattered glass, they lay broken, naked, and some eerily splattered with blood.

  She didn’t mistake the dead body half-in, half-out of a broken window as a mannequin. The blood looked fresh and plentiful and, as she jogged closer, she noted the right shoulder—or more accurately, the lack thereof.

  A cop was a cop, even in a hologram workout program, so she ran over to investigate.

  Urban War era? she wondered. But she saw no signs of bombing, heard no sound of street fighting, no military or paramilitary presence.

  What she did see when she reached the body was what had once been a man greedily chomping on the DB’s leg.

  The dead woman’s eyes snapped open. She growled. And what was snacking on her rose up from his hands and knees to shamble forward.

  “Seriously?”

  Eve reached for her weapon. Instead of a stunner, she held a handgun. Resisting the instinct to aim for body mass, she remembered the weirdly entertaining zombie vid she’d watched with Roarke and went for the head shot.

  When he dropped, the dead, mostly devoured woman began to crawl out of the broken window. Mindless hunger glowed in her eyes.

  Eve shot her between them.

  And they came, shambling out of broken windows, climbing out of manholes, dragging themselves over the sidewalk.

  She said, “Well, shit,” and ran.

  By the time she got back upstairs, Roarke sat, the cat across his lap, a pot of coffee on the table. Out of habit, she supposed, he had the screen on mute while the stock reports flashed on.

  “Why were there zombies?”

  He smiled at her. “Some say it comes from a virus.”

  “I figured on a three-mile run since I was up, pulled a program that fit the timing, and zombies are chowing down all over Midtown and up to the Upper West.”

  “Ah, Flight or Fight, was it? And which did you choose?” he asked as she hit the pot for more coffee.

  “Both. Zombie doorman over on Fiftieth nearly had me, but I mostly decapitated him with the revolving doors. I just wanted a run.”

  “You could’ve ended the program, picked another.”

  “That’s like quitting. Anyway, I worked up a sweat. I’m grabbing a shower.”

  As she went, Roarke scratched Galahad between the ears. “She had more fun than she’ll admit.”

  When she came out, the cat sprawled across the bed and Roarke had breakfast under warming domes.

  “So, what planet did you buy while I was fighting zombies?”

  “Actually, this morning dealt with fine-tuning some projects in the South Pacific.”

  He removed the warmers to reveal golden omelets, flaky croissants, and some sort of little parfait topped with peaches.

  “However, this afternoon, you might be interested to know, I’ll be looking at some design options for the venue area of your building.”

  She knew she’d find spinach inside the omelet, but when she cut into it, she also discovered ham and cheese. “It’s not my building just because you slapped my name on the deed.”

  He topped off both their coffees. “Darling Eve, your name on the deed is exactly what makes it your building. I can also tell you Stone, the justly reviled tenant, has decided to relocate both his club and his living quarters to Jersey City.”

  “Yeah? Well, bad luck to him. Asshole. Speaking of someone else, who wasn’t an asshole but connected to a previous case, the guy who does the metal sculptures. Where Eliza Lane stole the cyanide.”

  “All right, yes.”

  “Peabody went goofy over this lamp he had. Since I got a look at her part of the house, yeah, I can see it. Still, you’re more up on what she’s doing and where and all that. If I had him send you a picture of it, or one like it, maybe you could see if it’d work somewhere in her new place.”

  “I could, yes.”

  “Solid.” She shoveled in eggs. “Then there’s this garden sculpture deal Peabody said Mavis would go goofy over and, yeah, she would. Lane commissioned him to make it so she could steal the cyanide. He’s probably finished it by now, or maybe he scrapped it considering. Anyway, we’ve got to get them stuff, right? When they finish the new place, you’ve got to give them stuff.”

  “Housewarming gifts, yes. And listen to you, thinking ahead to appropriate gifts.”

  “It’s not thinking ahead so much as not having to think. And it’s definitely not browsing,” she added, thinking of her conversation with Peabody.

  “Browsing?”

  “You probably had to be there.”

  Steam poured out when she broke open her croissant. She slathered it with butter that melted on contact.

  “All right then. Have him send me the images. I expect if Peabody thought they’d work, they will.”

  “Good, then it’s done and no thinking or browsing. Better yet, no shopping. I’ve got to spend the day thinking about wrong cops and the people who love or loved them. Because that’s what it’s going to be. Maybe I’ll hit Mira up for a consult, see if she leans there.

  “Greenleaf’s memorial’s tomorrow.”

  “Will you attend?”

  She shrugged, ate. “Depends on where we are. Paying respects matters, but—”

  “Finding his killer matters more.”

  “It does. The suicide matters,” she added as she ate. “Not just killing him, but staging it as suicide. To cover, or to spread more pain? I think I’ll talk to Mira, fit that in somewhere today.”

  “Isn’t death enough pain?”

  Shaking her head, she sampled the parfait and wondered if the peaches came from their own trees out in the back.

  Either way, tasty.

  “Your loved one’s murdered, there’s shock and grief. There are maybe ifs and whys. Suicide’s a different kind of pain. He left me, he chose this. Why didn’t I see he was in crisis? So is this a strike at the wife, the family, too? Maybe. Or it’s a mirror.”

  He lifted a brow as he topped off their coffee. “Ah.”

  “Yeah. Payback for the loss of someone who committed suicide, someone Greenleaf—in the killer’s mind—drove to it. Someone who left his or her family with that different kind of pain and grief. Any way you look at it, it’s going to matter.”

  She pushed up. “I’ve got to get dressed. The zombies took me longer than the thirty.”

  “Zombies have no respect for schedules.”

  Who could argue? she thought as she moved into her closet. And she’d damn well get her own clothes together for the day.

  She grabbed khaki trousers—sort of the opposite of black—then a navy jacket because summer, lightweight. A sleeveless white shirt seemed just fine.

  She had navy boots sitting right there, so why not?

  She waffled over the belt—brown or navy—then spotted a navy one with thin brown leather woven through.

  She dressed quickly—don’t give him a chance!—and came out carrying the jacket.

  As she strapped on her weapon harness, she glanced over at him.

  “Okay, what?”

  “I was just thinking how fresh and professional you look.”

  She grabbed her badge, her ’link. “Is that a flick?”

  “Not at all. In fact, looking at you, a bad guy might think: Ah well, she’ll be easy to take down, won’t she then? And won’t he be surprised when he’s splayed out at your feet bleeding from the ears?”

  She had to grin, then swiped a finger down herself. “This says all that?”

  “To me it does.” He rose to draw her into his arms. “I’ve a packed one today, but you’ll let me know if there’s some finances that need looking into. A man wants his entertainment.”

  “I can do that.” And kissed him. “The club venue design deal? Maybe something Mavis or Avenue A would play in.”

  He kissed her. “We’ll keep that in mind. See you take care of my fresh and professional cop.”

  “Top of the list.”

  On the way into Central, she texted Feeney to request McNab for another day. Cutting down names of potentials also hit top of the list. She considered texting Mira directly about a consult, then decided not to rile the dragon admin. She’d go through channels.