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He bent his head to give her a light kiss, but she changed the tone, the texture, by pulling him close, her mouth hot and greedy. Her hands were fisted in his hair, and her blood was up before she released him.
There was satisfaction in seeing his eyes had darkened and his breath quickened. “Well. What was that for?”
“I like to,” she said and picked up her empty coffee cup. “See you.” She gave him a smile over her shoulder as she went to the kitchen for a refill.
• • •
Eve screened her calls on her home unit, her palm unit, her vehicle, and her equipment in her office at Central. If her math held, she’d received twenty-three calls from reporters, which ran the gamut from charm, pleas, vague threats, and minor bribes, since midnight. Six of them, at varying locations and with increasing levels of frustration and urgency, were from Nadine Furst at Channel 75.
They might have been friends, which never failed to surprise Eve, but for both of them business was business. Nadine wanted an exclusive one-on-one with the primary investigator in the death of Richard Draco. Eve just wanted his killer.
She dumped each and every one of the calls from the media, signaled Peabody to stand by, and played the terse message from her commanding officer.
That one was simple enough. His office. Now.
It was still shy of eight A.M.
Commander Whitney didn’t keep her waiting. His aide gestured Eve straight into his office where Whitney sat behind his desk, juggling his own communications.
His big hands tapped the surface of his desk impatiently, one lifting to jab a finger at a chair as she entered. He continued to man his tele-link, his broad, dark face betraying nothing, his voice calm and brisk.
“We’ll brief the press at two. No, sir, it cannot be done any sooner. I’m well aware Richard Draco was a prominent celebrity and the media is demanding details. We’ll accommodate them at two. The primary will be prepared. Her report is on my desk,” he said, lifting a brow at Eve.
She rose quickly, set a disc at his fingertips.
“I’ll contact you as soon as I’ve analyzed the situation.” For the first time since Eve entered, irritation rippled over Whitney’s face. “Mayor Bianci, whether or not Draco was a luminary of the arts, he’s dead. I have a homicide, and the investigation will be pursued with all energy and dispatch. That is correct. Two o’clock,” he repeated, then ended the transmission and pulled off his privacy headphones.
“Politics.” It was all he said.
He leaned back, rubbed at a line of tension at the base of his neck. “I read the prelim report you filed last night. We have a situation.”
“Yes, sir. The situation should be in autopsy right about now.”
His lips stretched in what was almost a smile. “You’re not much of a theater buff, are you, Dallas?”
“I get my quota of entertainment on the street.”
“‘All the world’s a stage,’” Whitney murmured. “By now you’re aware that the victim was a celebrity of considerable note. His death in such a public, and shall we say, dramatic venue, is news. Major news. The story’s already hit on and off planet. Draco to Mansfield to Roarke to you.”
“Roarke isn’t involved.” Even as she said it, a dozen curses ran through her head.
“He owns the theater, he was the primary backer for the play, and from the information that’s come to me already, he was personally responsible for wooing both Draco and Mansfield into the production. Is that accurate, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir. Commander Whitney, if every crime that took place in a property Roarke owns or has interest in was connected to him, he’d be tied to every cop and perpetrator on planet, and half of them off.”
This time Whitney did smile. “That’s quite a thought. However.” The smile vanished. “In this case his connection and yours is considerably more tangible. You’re among the witnesses. I prefer to look at that as an advantage in this instance. The fact that you were on-scene and were able to contain it quickly keeps this from being more unwieldy than it is. The media’s going to be a problem.”
“Respectfully, sir, the media is always a problem.”
He said nothing for a moment. “I take it you’ve seen some of the early headlines.”
She had. Running right after the flash of “Draco Dies for Art” had been annoying little tidbits such as: “Murder Most Foul! Renowned actor Richard Draco was brutally stabbed and killed last night, the murder committed under the nose of top NYPSD homicide detective, Lieutenant Eve Dallas.”
So much, she thought, for plugging media leaks.
“At least they didn’t refer to me as Roarke’s wife until the third paragraph.”
“They’ll use him and you to keep the story hot.”
