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Instead, he'd spent the night thinking about a woman who sure as hell didn't like him and who he didn't much care for either, and now he was standing here with his brain locked on what she'd said about spending the day with the Frenchman. He kept imagining her in Pretty Boy's arms, her hair spread over the pillow, her beautiful face taut with ecstasy.
"O'Neil? Do you think it's the same person?"
Conor looked at her. "It's a good bet," he said, because there was nothing to be gained for either of them by lying.
She took it well, nothing giving away her reaction except for a slight flicker in her eyes.
"And is it good or bad that it's the same person who's doing these things?"
Bad, he thought, definitely bad. If one person was behind everything, then that person was at the very least dangerous and, at the very worst, the kind of lunatic who'd long ago lost touch with reality.
"Good," he said, this time opting for whatever lie would work. "If I'm right, then we can devote all our resources to locating one individual."
"How will we do that?"
So much for his clever response. Damn, but she was full of good questions he couldn't answer but he wasn't going to tell her that, not when she was back to looking at him the way she had when he'd first come through the door, as if he was Superman riding a white horse and to hell with mixed metaphors.
"By doing the job I'm trained to do," he said, wondering what Harry Thurston would say if he could hear this crap. "Tracking down leads, asking questions... which reminds me, what's the dragon lady's name?"
"Who?"
"The concierge. Does she have a name or just a number?"
Miranda smiled. "Madame Delain, you mean. She's not as bad as she looks."
"Yeah, and Mein Kampf was only a wish list." Conor went to the door and opened it. "You stay put. I'll only be a minute."
Miranda stood up and went after him. Last night, she'd obeyed his command to stay like a well-trained spaniel but not this time.
"Forget it, O'Neil." She plucked her coat from the chair and drew it around her shoulders. "Whither thou goest," she said, "I trail along."
Conor took one look at the determined tilt to her jaw and decided not to argue.
* * *
Madame Delain not only insisted she had not permitted any strangers to enter the building, she grew indignant at Conor's even raising the question.
"I grant access to no one without the knowledge and permission of our tenants," she said, drawing herself up until her ample bosom rested under her chin. "Surely, Mademoiselle Beckman is aware of this."
"Oh, of course, madame," Miranda said quickly. "It's just that someone—"
"Someone slipped something under Mademoiselle Beckman's door," Conor said, his voice sliding over hers. "And she just wondered if you knew who it was."
"I do not know because no one did such a thing," madame said, her words dipped in ice.
"Were you at your desk all day, madame?"
"Certainement."
"No lunch break?"
"I had lunch here. It is my custom."
"No breaks to visit the bathroom?"
Madame Delain gave Conor a look that suggested only mortals were in need of such things.
"None."
