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“There’ve been rumblings that there might have been an underage fan now and again, though he’s usually more careful. No violence that I’ve heard of. Though he likes bondage games, he prefers being the one bound.”
“He one of yours?”
“No, he’s still with his original label. I could probably poach him, but his music just annoys me.”
“Okay, moving on. There Niles Renquist, works for U.N. Delegate Marshall Evans.”
“I know Renquist, slightly. So do you.”
“I do?”
“You met him, I think it was last spring, at another appalling obligation.” He watched her eyebrows draw together as she tried to place it—the place, the meet, the man. “More a quick introduction than a meet, actually. A silent auction benefiting, well, there you have me,” he murmured. “I’d need my book for that. But it was a few months ago, here in New York. You’d have been introduced to him and his wife at some point.”
Because she couldn’t bring it in, she let it go. “Did I have an impression?”
“Apparently not. He’s, let’s see . . . conservative, leaning toward stuffy. Late thirties, I’d say, well-spoken, well-educated. What you might call a bit prissy. His wife’s quite pretty in the British tea party style. They have homes here and in England, I know, as I recall his wife telling me she enjoyed New York, but much preferred their home outside London where she could garden properly.”
“Did you have an impression?”
“Can’t say I liked either of them overmuch.” He lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. “A bit on the pompous side, and very aware of class distinctions and levels of society. The sort I’d find tedious if not downright annoying with regular exposure.”
“You know a lot of people who fit that box.”
His lip twitched. “I do. Yes, I do.”
“Elliot P. Hawthorne?”
“Yes, I’ve had dealings with him. Seventies, sharp, lives for golf. Apparently dotes on his third, considerably younger wife, and travels quite a lot now that he’s retired. I like him quite a bit. Is that helpful at all?”
“Anybody you don’t know?”
“Not worth mentioning.”
The evening at home with Roarke had helped clear her mind, Eve decided as she rode up in the jammed elevator to the Homicide Division. Not only did she feel rested, well-fed, and tuned up, but his informal rundown of some of the names on her list gave her a different insight. It was more personal and certainly more informative than the dry facts from a standard ID run.
She could shuffle his data around in her head as she questioned each party, and angle those questions around the more personal information. But first, she needed to check for any updates on lab and ME reports, round up Peabody, and face the media music.
She elbowed her way out of the elevator and turned toward her sector.
And all but ran into Nadine Furst.
The on-air reporter had a new short and sleek hairdo. What was it, Eve thought, with new hair on everybody? It was blonder, swingier, and swept back from Nadine’s perfect, angular face.
She was wearing a short, fitted jacket over slim, fitted pants, both in power red, which told Eve she was camera-ready.
And she carried a huge white bakery box that smelled gloriously of fat and sugar.
“Doughnuts.” There was no mistaking that scent, and Eve homed in on it like a hound on a fox. “You’ve got doughnuts in there.” She tapped a finger to the box. “That’s how you get through the bull pen, avoid the civilian and media lounges, and end up in my office. You bribe my men.”
Nadine fluttered her lashes. “And your point is?”
“My point is, how come I never get a damn doughnut?”
“Because generally I time it better, dump my offering in the bull pen, sometimes it’s brownies, and while every cop in Homicide descends like a pack of coyotes, I settle down in your office and wait for your arrival.”
Eve waited a beat. “Bring the doughnuts, leave the camera.”
“I need my camera,” Nadine said, gesturing to the woman beside her.
