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They both stepped forward, and she lifted a hand, pressed it firmly to his chest. “This is my crime scene.”
“I’m fully aware of what it is. Move aside, I won’t go any farther.”
The tone of his voice answered the question she’d yet to ask. With a little jerk around her heart she stepped to the side. “You knew him.”
“Yes.” Anger stirred with pity as he studied the body. “You have his data by now, but I’ll tell you he was a smart, ambitious man who moved up the publishing ranks quickly. He liked books. Real books. The kind you hold in your hand so you can turn the pages.”
She said nothing, but knew Roarke also liked real books. That would have been a link between him and the dead. That enjoyment of turning the page.
“He would have been editing today,” Roarke told her, and now guilt, sneaky and slick, slid in with the anger and pity. “He took one day a week at home for editing, though he could easily have passed that job on to his admin or any number of editors. As I recall, he liked to sail, and kept a small boat in a marina on Long Island. He talked of buying a weekend place there. He was seeing someone recently.”
“The girlfriend found him. I have her in another room with a uniform.”
“None of the things I’ve just told you have anything to do with why he’s dead. He’s dead because he worked for me.”
His eyes shifted back to Eve’s, and the heat in them was brutal. “That’s a line of inquiry I intend to pursue.” Below the range of the recorder, she put a hand on his. And under her fingers she could feel the vibration of violence, ruthlessly restrained.
“I need you to wait outside. I need you to let me take care of him.”
There was a moment, a bad one, where she feared he would do something, say something she would have to expunge from the record. Then his eyes cooled, a change so abrupt it brought a chill. He stepped back.
“I’ll wait” was all he said, and left her.
It was a relief that Talbot’s current girlfriend, Dana, had apparently cried herself out by the time Eve sat down to get her statement. Her eyes were red, and she continually sipped water as if the bout of tears had dehydrated her. But she was steady enough, and she was clear.
“We were supposed to have a late lunch date. He said he’d be ready for a break about two. It was Jonah’s turn to pay.”
Her lips quivered, and she bit down on the bottom one hard. “We took turns with who paid for lunch. There’s a restaurant, Polo’s, just over on Eighty-second, we both like. I don’t live far from there, and we both take Wednesdays to work at home. I’m a literary agent with Creative Outlet. That’s how we met, at an industry function a few months ago. I was late. Didn’t get there until about twenty after.”
She paused, sipped, closed her eyes briefly. She had a strong face, with more character than beauty. “Long ’link call from a client who needed some stroking. Jonah always jokes about me being late for everything. He calls it Dana time. So when I got there, and he hadn’t shown up, I was feeling pretty smug. Planned to rib him about it. Oh, God, just a minute, okay?”
“Take your time.”
This time she pressed the glass to her forehead, rolled it slowly back and forth. “About two-thirty, I thought I should give him a call, see what was going on. He didn’t answer, so I waited another fifteen minutes. He could walk from here to there in five. I was half-pissed off and half-worried. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, yeah, I do.”
“I decided to walk over to his place. Kept thinking we’d run into each other on the way, and he’d be running, have all these excuses. I was deciding whether I’d be mad or let him weasel out. Then when I got here . . .”
“Did you have a key to the door?”
“What?”
Her swollen eyes had glazed. Now they focused again. Good, Eve thought. You’re doing good. You’ll get through.
“Did you have a key or code to the door?”
“No. No, I didn’t have his key or code. We hadn’t taken it quite that far yet. We both wanted to keep it loose. The modern American dating couple, each cautiously guarding his own space.”
A tear leaked out now, and she ignored it, let it trail down her cheek. “The door wasn’t closed, not all the way. That’s when I was more worried than pissed. I pushed the door open and called out. I kept telling myself he’d gotten involved in the book he was editing and lost track, but I started feeling scared. I nearly turned around and walked out, but I couldn’t seem to do it. I kept calling, kept going back toward his office. Then I was at the door, and I saw him. Saw Jonah. I saw him on the floor, and the blood around his head. Sorry,” she said, and quickly lowered her own between her knees.
As the dizziness passed, she saw the book on the floor. With a choked sound she picked up the battered paperback, and straightening again, smoothed the covers.
“Jonah was a story junkie. Any form. Books, discs, audio, visual. You’d find them all over his house and office, even on his boat. Can I . . . do you think I could keep this?”
“We’re going to need to keep everything on the premises, for now. When we’re done, I’ll see that it gets to you.”
“Thanks. Thanks for that. Okay.” She took a breath, and held onto the book as if it steadied her. “After I found him, I ran outside. I think I was going to keep running, but I saw one of the patrol droids, and I called it. I sat down on the steps and started to cry.”
