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“And you talked about?”
“We didn’t, not really. I knew she was wound up about something, and thought she’d probably got herself engaged, or got a bloody promotion, again. I acted a pillock because the bloke I’d been seeing turned into a berk and dumped me for some bit of fluff. And bollocks to him. I just met her for coffee and had a right go at her and buggered off. Bloody hell.”
It was a challenge, but Eve thought she’d picked her way through the foreign slang and idioms to the meat of it. “No contact after?”
“Well, I felt a right arse, didn’t I? A couple weeks later, I did penance and went by her flat, but she’d moved. All they said was she’d moved, maybe to Paris. It pissed me off that she didn’t let me know where she’d gone but there was bugger all I could do about it. She’s having a baby?”
“That’s right. Do you know Aaron?”
“Met him a couple of times. They were all but shacked up. Is he there in New York with her?”
“Not to my knowledge. Do you have his full name, a contact number or address?”
“Aaron Applebee, in Chelsea, I think. He’s a writer for The Times. You telling me that git got her up the duff, then turned her out?”
“I’ll have to speak to him about that. Was she seeing anyone else?”
“Tandy? Not our girl. One at a time for her, and they’d been tight for months and months. Bastard. Maybe she’s come back home, come back to confront him. I’ll ring up a few people. A girl wants to be home, doesn’t she, when she’s about to be a mum.”
“I appreciate the information. If you think of anything else, or find out anything about her whereabouts, contact me.”
Eve did a search for Aaron Applebee and got his number and address.
When she hit his voice mail, she did a standard run on him instead.
Applebee, Aaron, the computer recited, DOB June 5, 2030, Devonshire, England.
It listed his parents, and a complicated series of half-sibs through each side. He was employed, as Briar Rose had said, as a staff writer for the London Times, and had been employed there for eight years. No marriage on record, no criminal. Several pings for traffic violations. He’d resided at the same address, in Chelsea, for five years.
His ID photo showed an attractive blond man with a long jaw. A height of five feet ten inches, a weight of one-sixty.
On the surface, he looked steady, ordinary. A regular bloke, she mused.
“Want to talk to you, Aaron.”
She tried his home ’link again, bounced to voice mail and clicked off. After looking up the name of the investigator on the like crime in Rome, she began to wind her way through the maze of the Italian cops until she found one in his unit who not only spoke perfect English but agreed to contact Inspector Triveti, and ask him to get in touch.
She updated her notes, then rose to add the printout of Aaron Applebee’s ID photo. When she turned toward the kitchen, Roarke stepped out of his office.
“No more coffee,” he said, definitively.
“Just one more hit. I’m waiting for a callback from Rome.”
“Then order a cappuccino—decaf—and make it two.”
She very nearly pouted. “Decaf’s got no punch.”
“The depth of the shadows under your eyes makes it look like you’ve already been punched. What’s in Rome?”
“A like crime, and a cop who I hope speaks English.” Since Roarke followed her into the kitchen, she couldn’t sneak real coffee. “I talked to Tandy’s stepsister.”
She relayed the gist of the conversation as the AutoChef served up two frothy coffees. “How are you on Brit slang?”
“Reasonably fluent.”
“I could’ve used you as an interpreter. What’s ‘bog standard’?”
“Boring, basically.”
