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“Sure.” Dwier reached for more pretzels. “She repped some of the vics from these cases. If you’re thinking of finessing names from her, you’re wasting your time. She won’t shake.”
“Dedicated type?”
“You bet.”
“Dedicated enough to go outside the system if she doesn’t like how it’s working?”
His eyes stayed flat. “If I had to say, I’d say she’s by-the-book. Not everybody always likes the way it reads, but it’s the book. Until a better one gets written anyway. Let me ask you something.”
“Sure.”
“Murder cops are different. Anybody on the job knows that. But doesn’t it stick in your craw to be working for scum like this?”
“I don’t pick the dead I stand for, Dwier. They pick me. Good luck in court tomorrow.”
She walked out, then simply sat in her vehicle. There was quite a bit sticking in her craw, she thought. The latest was her instincts telling her that a man who’d been a pretty good cop had crossed a line along the way.
If Dwier wasn’t already a member of Purity, he was a prime candidate for application.
When Eve walked back into the house, Mira was coming down the stairs.
“Eve. I thought I’d miss you.”
“Did we have a consult scheduled?”
“No, though I did drop off the profile you’d wanted.” Mira stopped at the base of the steps, one pretty hand on the gleaming wood of the banister. Her warm brown hair was a soft wave around a soft, feminine face. Her mouth was a pale creamy rose, her eyes a clear summer blue.
Her suit had a fluid drape and was the color of sunflowers. It was, Eve supposed, stylish in some classic sense, and was matched with Mira’s favored pearls.
She looked perfect, essentially female, utterly comforting. And was one of the top criminal profilers in the country as well as the psychiatric specialist attached to the NYPSD.
“Thanks, but you didn’t have to go out of your way.”
“I was coming by anyway. I wanted to see McNab.”
“Oh.” Instantly Eve’s hands sought her pockets. “Well.”
“I wonder if I might speak with you for a few minutes. There’s that lovely garden terrace off the parlor. I’d love to sit outside.”
“Ah.” Eve’s mind strained toward her office, toward her work. “Sure. Fine.”
“Would you care for some refreshment, Doctor?” Summerset lurked at the edge of the foyer. “Some tea? Perhaps some wine.”
“Thank you. I’d love a glass of wine.”
Before she could comment, Mira slid an arm through Eve’s and walked toward the parlor. “I know you have work. I promise not to keep you long. You’ve had a difficult day. The media conference couldn’t have been pleasant for you.”
“That’s a master understatement.” Eve opened the terrace doors, stepped out.
Like everything of Roarke’s, the spot was beautifully planned and executed.
The terrace itself was constructed of stones, various shapes, sizes, tones all smoothed into a fluid curve that blended into garden paths. There were two glass and iron tables set among pots where flowers flooded or dwarf trees speared. Beyond the curve, gardens exploded with summer.
The evening sun spilled pale gold onto the stones and through a trellis wild with vines and vivid blue blossoms.
“Such a charming spot.” Mira took a seat at one of the tables. Sighed. “I’m afraid I’d find myself sitting out here every chance I got, daydreaming.” She smiled. “Do you ever daydream, Eve?”
“I guess.” She sat, wondered if she should read Dwier’s file again. “Not so much, really.”
