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“Check out as in go out?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a possible. I want to work it now.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Waste time, and neither do you. I’ll drive.”
When he clicked off she blew out a breath.
No point in arguing. And she could do a secondary run on Powders while Roarke played
chauffeur.
He beat her downstairs and opened the door under the bitter eye of Galahad just as the vehicle he’d remoted on auto cruised to the front of the house.
“Where are we going and why?”
“Columbia, on-campus housing to interview a possible suspect. More likely a potential dupe. But either way that’s not my vehicle.”
Roarke glanced at the slick two-seat convertible, top down, in glittering silver. “It’s mine, and since I’m driving and it’s a very nice evening, I want an appropriate ride.”
She frowned all the way to the passenger seat. “I have an appropriate ride, which you gave me.”
“Safe, loaded, and deliberately unattractive. Key in the address,” he suggested, and gunned it down the drive.
She hated to admit it, but it felt damn good, the night, the air, the speed. Reminding herself it wasn’t about fun, she started a deeper run on Darian Powders.
“Kid’s from Georgia, requested new ID in January. He’s the right age, and he’s got a pretty face.”
“Isn’t school out for the summer? Why would he be on campus in June?”
“He’s taking a short summer semester, and interning at Westling Publishing. Lit major. He’s completed his second year at the college, carries a 3.4 grade average. No criminal, but his brother—who’s still in Georgia—has two illegals pops. Minor shit. He’s got an uncle in New York, an editor at the publishing house, who has a son a couple years older than this one who took a harder illegals hit. Did six months, and another three in rehab. Bust was Brooklyn’s, so not MacMasters.”
“Hardly motive for what was done to that girl.”
“It’s a start,” Eve said, and kept working the run as she enjoyed the ride.
7
EVE FLASHED HER BADGE AT THE STERN-FACED droid riding the desk at the check-in for the dorm. She assumed they’d gone droid to try to avoid any possibility of bribery or human weakness with infractions. But she figured that area would be offset by the ability of probably half the residents in reprogramming or memory erase.
The droid gave Eve’s badge both a naked eye study and a red-beam scan.
“Purpose of business?”
“That would be filed under none of yours.”
In droid fashion, the machine dubbed “Ms. Sloop” according to its nameplate stared blankly during processing.
“I am responsible for the residents and visitors of this building.”
“I’m responsible for the residents and visitors of this city. I win.” Eve tapped her badge. “This requires you to answer one simple question: Is Darian Powders on the premises at this time?”
The droid blinked twice, then consulted its comp, though Eve imagined it had the information in its own circuits.
During the process, Eve wondered if the pinched-face, tight-lipped, slicked-back-bun look of the machine was an attempt by whoever was in charge to intimidate the residents into behaving.
