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Idly, she doodled a triangle on a pad, drew a horizontal line through its center. “What would you call this?”
Roarke glanced over her shoulder. “What you have there is a midpoint proportionality, a segment whose endpoints are the midpoints of two sides of a triangle. A segment that is parallel to the third side—its length half the length of that third side.”
“Jeez, über-geek. I see a kind of box inside a triangle. A connect from another source.”
“That as well.”
“Huh.” While he wandered off to the kitchen, she rose and updated her murder board. Her computer signaled the assigned task was completed before she was finished.
“Display results.” She started to turn just as Roarke came out of the kitchen with a tray. “We already ate.”
“We did indeed.” He crossed, set the tray on the table, then took off a small plate. And turning, offered it. “And this is a homemade fudge brownie.”
Her heart, she was embarrassed to realize, just melted. “Man, you never miss a trick.”
“You can thank Summerset later.”
“Uh-uh.”
“I asked if he’d bake a batch. So you can thank me as well.” Roarke held the plate just out of reach, tapped his lips with the index finger of his free hand.
She rolled her eyes, but it was only for form. Then leaned in, pecked a kiss on his lips, and snatched the brownie. “Damn me if I’m kissing those bird lips of Summerset.” She bit in, then just groaned. “Oh, God, this is really…Are there more?”
“Maybe.”
“I’d better space it out. I think this is the chocolate equivalent of Zeus.” On another bite she turned to read the data. “Son of a bitch! I fucking knew I was right.”
“About…” He scanned the data. “One Harmon, Quella, female, age fifty-eight of Taos, New Mexico. Two marriages, two divorces, no offspring. Occupation, artist.”
“What kind of artist?”
Cocking his head, he continued to read the data. “Specializes in fashion and jewelry, stone and leatherwork. Leatherwork. Ah.”
“Ah, my ass. Bull’s-fucking-eye. If that’s not the ricin source, I will kiss the hideous lips of Summerset. The castor beans, they still grow wild in arid areas. I bet New Mexico has some arid areas. And I bet a leather artist living out there uses the oil in leather preparation.”
“Certainly that may be, and how does Quella Harmon connect—or are we still using ‘intersect’—with your victims?”
“By being the maternal aunt of Allika Straffo. Means,” Eve stated. “Closing right in on means. Computer, search date books on each Straffo individual in evidence for any travel to New Mexico over the past six months. No, amend. A full year. And/or any mention during that time period in same of Harmon, Quella, to New York.”
Acknowledged. Working…
“You think Straffo took a sample of ricin from this woman, with or without her knowledge, carried it back to New York, then used it to poison Foster.”
“I damn well do.”
“All right, means I’ll give you, Eve, but you’ve lost motive again, haven’t you? Unless the computer reports that there was contact with this Harmon in the last couple of months, it would have been prior to Allika’s affair with Williams, prior to Foster having knowledge of it.”
“Uh-huh. Parallel lines.”
Task complete. Straffo, Oliver, Allika, and Rayleen traveled by commercial shuttle from New York to Taos, New Mexico, on November twenty-six. Returned to New York by commercial shuttle on November thirty…
“That’s before Allika took up with Williams, according to their statements. Isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” But Eve was smiling grimly.
“Then unless Straffo is a sensitive with psychic tendencies, why would he transport a poisonous substance on a commercial carrier before his wife strayed?”
“Maybe it wasn’t a poisonous substance at that time, maybe it was just a bag of beans. But it’s all about planning and possibilities. Opportunities. Curiosity.”
