“Depends.” As she began to waken fully, Nadine’s senses sharpened. “You have something for me.”
“Prosecuting Attorney Cicely Towers was murdered about thirty hours ago.” Ignoring Nadine’s yelp, Eve continued briskly, “Her throat was slashed, and her body was discovered on the sidewalk of Hundred and forty-fourth between Ninth and Tenth.”
“Towers. Jesus wept. I had a one-on-one with her two months ago after the DeBlass case. Hundred and forty-fourth?” The wheels were already turning. “Mugging?”
“No. She still had her jewelry and credit tokens. A mugging in that neighborhood wouldn’t have left her shoes behind.”
“No.” Nadine closed her eyes a moment. “Damn. She was a hell of a woman. You’re primary?”
“Right the first time.”
“Okay.” Nadine let out a long breath. “So, why is the primary on what has to be the top case in the country contacting me?”
“The devil you know, Nadine. Your illustrious associate Morse is drooling down my neck.”
“Asshole,” Nadine muttered, tamping out the cigarette in quick, jerky bumps. “That’s why I didn’t get word of it. He’d have blocked me out.”
“You play square with me, Nadine, I play square with you.”
Nadine’s eyes sharpened, her nostrils all but quivered. “Exclusive?”
“We’ll discuss terms when you get back. Make it fast.”
“I’m practically on planet.”
Eve smiled at the blank screen. That ought to stick in your greedy craw, C. J., she mused. She was humming as she pushed away from her desk. She had people to see.
By nine A.M., Eve was cooling her heels in the plush living area of George Hammett’s uptown apartment. His taste ran to the dramatic, she noted. Huge squares of crimson and white tiles were cool under her boots. The tinkling music of water striking rock sang from the audio of the hologram sweeping an entire wall with an image of the tropics. The silver cushions of the long, low sofa glittered, and when she pushed a finger into one, it gave like silken flesh.
She decided she’d continue to stand.
Objets d’art were placed selectively around the room. A carved tower that resembled the ruins of some ancient castle, the mask of a woman’s face embedded in translucent rose-colored glass, what appeared to be a bottle that flashed with vivid, changing colors with the heat of her hand.
When Hammett entered from an adjoining room, Eve concluded that he was every bit as dramatic as his surroundings.
He looked pale, heavy eyed, but it only increased his stunning looks. He was tall and elegantly slim. His face was poetically hollowed at the cheeks. Unlike many of his contemporaries—Eve knew him to be in his sixties—he had opted to let his hair gray naturally. An excellent choice for him, she thought, as his thick lion’s mane was as gleaming a silver as one of Roarke’s Georgian candlesticks.
His eyes were the same striking color, though they were dulled now with what might have been grief or weariness.
He crossed to her, cupped her hand in both of his. “Eve.” When his lips brushed her cheek, she winced. He was making the connection personal. She thought they both knew it.
“George,” she began, subtly drawing back. “I appreciate your time.”
“Nonsense. I’m sorry I had to keep you waiting. A call I had to complete.” He gestured toward the sofa, the sleeves of his casual shirt billowing with the movement. Eve resigned herself to sitting on it. “What can I offer you?”
“Nothing, really.”
“Coffee.” He smiled a little. “I recall you’re very fond of it. I have some of Roarke’s blend.” He pressed a button on the arm of the sofa. A small screen popped up. “A pot of Argentine Gold,” he ordered, “two cups.” Then, with that faint and sober smile still on his lips, he turned back to her. “It’ll help me relax,” he explained. “I’m not surprised to find you here this morning, Eve. Or perhaps I should be calling you Lieutenant Dallas, under the circumstances.”
“Then you understand why I’m here.”
“Of course. Cicely. I can’t get used to it.” His cream-over-cream voice shook a little. “I’ve heard it countless times on the news. I’ve spoken with her children and with Marco. But I can’t seem to take in the fact that she’s gone.”
“You saw her the night she was killed.”
A muscle in his cheek jerked. “Yes. We had dinner. We often did when our schedules allowed. Once a week at least. More, if we could manage it. We were close.”
He paused as a small server droid glided in with the coffee. Hammett poured it himself, concentrating on the small task almost fiercely. “How close?” he murmured, and Eve saw his hand wasn’t quite steady as he lifted his cup. “Intimate. We’d been lovers, exclusive lovers, for several years. I loved her very much.”