“Because there’s no going back, only forward.”
“Yep. Do you have any—trinkets—from back when?”
Walking his fingers down Eve’s arm, Roarke ate some bacon. “Now that’s a loaded question from a cop over breakfast. I did have a few, here and there,” he said with a shrug. “But I passed them on, you could say, when a cop came into my life—as she wouldn’t like it.”
“She wouldn’t have known.”
“I would have. As a former thief, I’d say if your suspect is indeed keeping all his spoils, he’s what you termed him last night. A hoarder. He doesn’t need to liquidate, so it’s not for the money—and a man can have plenty of that and enjoy taking more. Serials often take souvenirs, don’t they?”
“Yeah, but it tends to be something specific to the victim, a memento. This is more … Aladdin’s Cave … He’d need a place, and a private one. The jewelry alone is a serious haul. The dresses—he’s taken a cocktail dress from each vic—though I haven’t confirmed that with the Strazza hit. That’s more a souvenir, but it’s a weird one. A fancy dress, shoes, and an evening bag.”
“Costume.”
Eve poked Roarke’s shoulder. “What I’m thinking. Not for him—different body types, so I don’t think we’re after a cross-dresser—but maybe for a woman or a droid or just one of those dead bodies the stores use to display clothes.”
“Mannequins, darling Eve. Not dead bodies.”
“They look like DBs. Anyway, he’s got a lot of whacked-out layers to him. No pets, no kids, in-home safes, married couples, single-family residences with good security. They’ve got to be surrogates, it’s too specific otherwise.”
“You’ll talk to Mira.”
“Yeah, soon.” She glanced back, frowned.
“Problem?”
“It’s intimidating. The new closet deal.”
“Some would find it efficient and convenient—especially some who don’t care to ponder overlong on what to wear on any given day.”
“Yeah, well.” She rose. “I’m going for it.”
“Good luck.”
It was more a damn room than a closet to her eye. Sure, everything was set up in order, and that helped. All the fancy duds and the fancy stuff that went with them had their own area. She didn’t even have to acknowledge their existence, and sure as hell didn’t intend to use the closet comp to have them sliding forward on their magic rods, or to preview on screen how this sparkly dress went with those ridiculous shoes.
Intimidating, she thought again, and just a little embarrassing.
She stared at the line of jackets. Why did she have so many jackets? If you just had a couple, choosing wasn’t a problem. But there had to be more than a hundred jackets, all arranged in color groups, the blacks leading to the grays, the grays leading to the blues and right down the line.
It could give a person a headache.
“Aim for warmth,” Roarke said as he stepped in.
Plenty of room for him, she thought. Hell, they could throw a party in here. Serve drinks. Hire a band.
He pulled a jacket from the blue section. Navy blue, she observed, no fancy work.
“Now if you used the comp, it would make suggestions on what to pair it with.”
“How does it know?” But when he turned to it, she grabbed his arm. “No, it’s too much for the first time in here. I have to sort of ease into it.”
“I simply adore you,” he stated, but stilled her hand before she grabbed navy trousers. “Then you’d have a sort of uniform, wouldn’t you? These.” He pulled out brown trousers, a kind of rusty brown, then shifted to vests, pulled one that had the same tone with navy blue buttons, added a crisp, tailored white shirt.
He handed her the lot, selected boots, brown and sturdy.
“I was getting the hang of it before everything got bigger.”
“And you’ll get the hang of it again.” He kissed her cheek, left her to dress.
Maybe she would, she thought, but she didn’t think she’d be making friends with the closet comp anytime soon.
When she came out, strapped her weapon harness over the vest, Roarke gestured to the screen. “Reports and speculations re the Strazza assault/murder and the investigation.”
“Then I’d better get to it.” She pulled on the jacket, picked up her badge, her ’link, her comm, her restraints, added her clutch piece.
“You look completely competent.”
“Clothes don’t make the cop.”
“But they give her an aura. Take care of my competent cop.”
“Will do.” She stepped to him, kissed him. Then left him to get to it.
8
As she fought her way downtown, Eve checked in with the duty nurse, learned Daphne had had a restless night, required a mild sedative. And that Dr. Nobel was already on his way in. The patient’s physical condition had been upgraded to satisfactory.
The cuts and bruises would heal, Eve thought. The damage to the psyche took longer.
Put the past behind you—that’s what people always said. But those people didn’t get that the past was always behind you. Like a hound on the scent.