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Even as she spoke, she watched Kevin. He opened the basket, removed three pink roses, and laid them on the blanket. He lifted wineglasses, held them to the sunlight to watch them sparkle. He opened a bottle of white. Poured a glass.
“Okay, okay, add the chaser, you son of a bitch.”
But instead he raised the glass in a kind of self-toast and sipped.
Then he turned his wrist, checked the time. Taking out his pocket-link, he made a call.
“Up your audio, Peabody,” Eve ordered. “Let’s see if we can get an ear on him.”
She heard birds, conversations, giggles, a child’s war hoop. Before she could demand it, Feeney was filtering.
Kevin’s voice came clearly. “Couldn’t be better. Ten people in the immediate area, so that’s a point for public venue. I suspect we’ll have to pass some park police on the way out, bonus points there.” He paused, laughed. A very young, very happy sound. “Yes, having her do that to me in broad daylight in a public park would certainly shoot me into the lead. I’ll let you know.”
He tucked the ’link away, then sat a moment, breathing deep, admiring the view.
“Just a game,” Eve murmured. “It’s going to be a pleasure taking these bastards down.”
He continued his preparations, moving a bit faster now, taking out a cold pack, opening it to a presentation of caviar. He set out toast points and the accompaniments. Foie gras, cold lobster, fresh berries.
“Gotta admit, the guy knows how to set out a spread.”
“Shut up, McNab,” Eve muttered.
He sampled a berry, then another. As he nibbled, she saw his eyes change. There, she thought. There it was. The coolness, the calculation. It remained steady as he poured the second glass of wine.
He watched and watched carefully as he opened the black bag. He reached in, brought his hand out again with the palm facing his body. And casually, he held his hand over the second glass, tipped.
She saw, in Roarke’s recorder, a thin trickle of liquid.
“Bingo. He’s ready for her. I’m coming in. Take third stage positions. Report any possible sightings of alternate target.”
She moved to the rear doors. “I’m under.”
“Take him down, kid,” Feeney said and kept his eyes glued to the screens.
She stepped out into the sun and warmth. When she caught herself striding, she did her best to saunter. She was barely into the park when a lunch-hour jogger trotted up to her.
“Hey, beautiful. How about a little run?”
“How about you back off before I knock you on your pudgy ass?”
“That’s my cop,” Roarke said softly in her ear as she kept walking.
She spotted Baxter under a stringy tangle of dirt-colored hair, a torn T-shirt, and drooping trousers that were both smeared with what looked like egg substitute and ketchup.
Most park patrons were giving him a wide berth. As she neared him, she caught the whiff of old sweat and stale brew mixed with urine.
The man really got into character, she thought.
When she passed him she got a wheezy wolf whistle.
“Bite me.”
“I dream of it,” he said behind his hand. “Night and day.”
In the five minutes it took her to move through the park, she was approached with propositions four times.
“You might want to take the I’ll-kick-your-ass-then-eat-it look off your face, Lieutenant,” McNab suggested. “Most guys’d be a little put off by it.”
