“Then I’d better keep you.”
“Be a fool not to. Neither of them’s been able, or maybe it’s willing, to maintain a serious long-term relationship. Except, the way it looks, with each other.” She plucked a fat black raspberry out of the bowl. “That’s telling. I burned my eyes reading society squibs, articles, gossip shit. They’ve dated a lot of the same women, and that’s interesting, too. Another kind of competition maybe.”
She scooped up more berries. “And another thing I found interesting. There’s all these little bits about one or both of them being at some bullfight in Spain, some big premiere in Hollywood, or skiing the Matterhorn or whatever. Doing the shiny spots when other people in that strata do the shiny spots. Would we be doing that if I wasn’t such a bitch about it?”
“Absolutely. Pass me that coffee, bitch.”
She snorted out a laugh. “Remember your crappier side, ace, and my knowledge thereof. Anyway, what was interesting was none of the exes were in any of the shiny spots at the same time as they were. Not once that I could find a mention of. They still occupy that same strata, and the ex-wives in particular run the same kind of loop, but they never seem to hit the same spot at the same time. Running with that, I scraped a little more off. Ex-Moriarity has a second ex, but they do. Hit the same spot at the same time, often. I want to get her to tell me why that is.”
She paused. “Did you know there are all kinds of write-ups and little features on us, on our vacation?”
Roarke pointed a finger at Galahad who’d begun his crouch toward the berries. The cat turned his head toward the screen as if suddenly enraptured by the financial news.
“I expect there would be.”
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“No, it’s just what is.” He watched her drink some of the orange juice he’d fortified with a vitamin supplement. “And none of those who write up that sort of thing have any idea I’m sitting here having breakfast with my bitch of a wife after some very pleasant morning sex.”
She shifted her gaze. “The cat knows.”
“He’ll keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him. We have home.” He touched a hand briefly to hers. “Outside of it? Privacy isn’t as important, or as possible.”
“I get that, mostly. Some of these people, and I think these two are in that type, they seek out that kind of attention. They want to read about what they were wearing when they had pizza in some trattoria in Florence.”
Apparently she’d been wearing cropped celadon pants and a white, sleeveless float. She shrugged that off.
“They like attention,” she continued. “I think that plays into why they chose this sort of murder game, with the attention-getting elements. They like hearing the media buzz about it.”
“Another reason they may have timed it so it favored the odds of you being called in as primary.”
“Maybe.” She downed the rest of the juice having no idea how much that pleased him. “I need to get going. I’m going to swing by and pick Peabody up at her place, save some time.”
“Will you spread the word about Saturday, or should I?”
“Saturday?”
“Your gathering of friends.”
She stayed blank another moment. “Oh. Right. I’ll do it.”
He pulled out a memo cube. “A reminder.” He took her chin, drew her over for a kiss. “Try not to come home with any more slices or holes.”
She trailed a finger down his side, where he’d had a slice of his own. “Same goes.”
She used the time she poked along in traffic to send e-mails for what Roarke called the gathering of friends, got it off her plate. And promptly forgot about it.
Attention, she thought. Her killers enjoyed it. Considered it their due? Possibly. A different matter from the killer who sought attention because on some level he wanted to be caught, wanted to be stopped, even punished.
If it was, as her line of theory followed, some sort of contest or competition, getting caught wasn’t an issue. Winning was—or if not winning, the competition itself.
However, competitions had rules, she concluded. Had to have some sort of structure, and in order to win, someone else had to lose.
How many more rounds of play? she wondered. Was there an endgame?
Questions circled in her mind as she stopped at a light, idly watched pedestrians cross. Ordinary people, she mused, off to their ordinary day. Breakfast meetings, shops to open, marketing to deal with, jobs waiting to be done.
People with a direction to keep, chores to be done, lists in their heads, duties to perform. Most people, most ordinary people, ran by the clock. Work, school, family, appointments, schedules.
What did these two run by? They weren’t ordinary people, but two men born into the top level of privilege. Men who could have whatever they wanted whenever they wanted it, and ordinary people served it up for them, ran on their schedule, even their whim.
Power and privilege.
Roarke had both, and, yeah, she thought, maybe part of the reason he was who and what he was was due to the fact he’d grown up hard, and grown up hungry. But that wasn’t the sum of it.
She thought of him and Brian Kelly, that long, strong connection, affection, trust. Brian owned and ran a successful pub in Dublin, and Roarke owned and ran half the damn world. But when they came together, as they had at the park, at a murder scene, at a family farm, they were simply friends.
Equals.
It was more than what you had, even more than how you’d come by it. It was what you did with it, and with yourself.
Power and privilege, she thought again. Just another excuse for being an asshole.
Two blocks from Peabody’s, Eve tagged her partner. “Five minutes. Get your ass down.”
She cut transmission without waiting for a response.
When she pulled up, double parking while other vehicles objected bitterly, she scanned the building where she’d once lived.
Ordinary again, a squat tower like so many others in a city jammed with people who needed space to eat, sleep, live. A hive, she thought, honeycombed with those spaces, those people, all living on top of each other. Now she lived in a home far from ordinary, one Roarke had built through ambition, need, style, wealth—and which she was still faintly embarrassed to admit was a mansion.
Maybe she wasn’t exactly the same woman she’d been when she’d lived in the hive, and maybe she’d come to understand that she was better for it. But the core remained, didn’t it? She still did what she did, still did the job, lived the life.
Maybe you just were what you were, she considered. Evolving, sure, changing as your life changed. But that core was still the core.
She watched Peabody come out, her dark hair pulled up and back in a short, bouncy tail; a thin, loose jacket swinging at her hips; short, summer pink gel boots on her feet. A long stretch from the square helmet of hair, the buffed and polished uniform she’d worn when Eve had taken her on as aide.
Changes, and Eve admitted she wasn’t always comfortable with change. But pink shoes or not, Peabody was a cop right to the bone.
“Money doesn’t make you an asshole,” Eve said when Peabody opened the door, “it just makes you an asshole with money.”
“Okay.”
“And people who kill for thrills? They always had the thirst for it, the predilection for it. Just maybe not the stones.”
Peabody wiggled her butt to settle in. “And you think we’re going to see that about Dudley when we talk to the ex-fiancée?”
Cop to the bone, Eve thought again. “I’m going to be pretty damn surprised if we don’t.”
“From the background I ran, she seems like the solid type. Volunteers as a counselor at the local youth center and he coaches softball. They belong to the country club, and she chairs a committee here and there. Feels like sort of the usual bits for that social and financial lifestyle.”