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Peabody studied the image alongside the data. “Looks pretty good, too. Maybe he’ll fall in love with me and beg me to marry him, thereby providing me with the style of living to which I would be willing to become accustomed.”
It didn’t work out that way. Hardley showed no particular interest in Peabody, but he did toward his pretty male admin. Things had looked hopeful when he’d become flustered and annoyed at the questioning, had refused to answer without his attorney present.
It took twenty minutes to arrange for the consult, and another twenty to wade through standard questions with the addition of the attorney through holo-projection.
An hour wasted, Eve thought as she slid back into her car, ticking Hardley off the list.
“Why didn’t he just tell us he was gay?” Peabody wondered. “And had an alibi for both nights in question?”
“Some people are still uncomfortable with alternative sexuality, even when it’s theirs. Run number two.”
They eliminated three out of the ten before Eve cut Peabody loose for the day. Because she knew her job—she didn’t have to like it—she swung to the curb in front of Peabody’s building and asked the question.
“So, are you having pizza or what?”
“I don’t know.” Peabody’s shoulders rose and fell. “I think probably not. It’ll just get all weird and screwed-up again. He’s really an asshole.” But she said it wistfully. “He really got hyped and looney about Charles.”
Eve shifted in her seat, wishing she could stem the thin trickle of sympathy for McNab. “I guess it could be rough on a guy to figure he was competing with someone like Charles.”
“We never said we were exclusive. And he can’t go around trying to direct my life. He can’t just start telling me who I can see, who I can be friends with.” Heating up, Peabody turned the glare on Eve. “And if I had been having sex with Charles, which I wasn’t, it wouldn’t be any of his damn business.”
Whoops, Eve thought. Forget your job for one little minute and take a blast right in the forehead. “Right. Absolutely right. Once an asshole, always an asshole. Good to remember that.”
“So screw him.” Peabody huffed out a breath and felt righteous. “He didn’t even bother to tag me during the day to see if I was up for it anyway. So screw him.”
“Sideways. We’ll interview the last names on the list tomorrow.”
“What?” Peabody brought herself back. “Right. Yes, sir. Tomorrow.”
Thinking she’d done a reasonably decent job of it, Eve shoved the car into crosstown traffic. With luck, she could be home in thirty minutes.
While she fought her way across and uptown, Roarke sipped a beer, and did his job.
“I think the pizza’s a good approach,” McNab said. “She’s got a weakness for it. And it keeps it casual-like. Friendly.”
“I’d pick up a bottle of red. Nothing fancy.”
“That’s good.” McNab’s face brightened. “But no flowers or anything.”
“Not this time. If you want to put things back as they were, you need to take her off guard. Keep her guessing.”
“Yeah.” Roarke, in McNab’s estimation, was the guru of romance. Anybody who could make Dallas soft was a veritable genius in affairs of the heart.
“But this deal with Charles,” he began.
“Forget it.”
“Forget it? But—” McNab stuttered in shock.
“Set it aside, Ian. At least for now. She’s fond of him, and whatever their relationship might be, it’s important to her. Every time you take a jab at him, you push her away.”
They were sitting, sharing beer, in some sort of den area McNab hadn’t even known existed. There was a pool table, an old-fashioned bar, view screens on opposing walls, and deep leather sofas and chairs the color of good red wine.
The art on the remaining walls were nudes. But they were classy nudes—long, streamlined female bodies that looked somehow foreign and refined.
It was, McNab thought, a real guy room. Away from the work stations, away from the ’links, where the only women were stylized art that didn’t drive you crazy. Here there were acres of wood, the smell of leather and tobacco.
Back to class, McNab thought.
