“But gambling was important enough?”
“Gambling was like a beautiful woman. Desirable, exciting, capricious. I had a choice between her and Mirina. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to keep Mirina.”
“Nothing?”
He understood, and inclined his head. “Nothing at all.”
“Does she know about the scandal in Sector 38?”
His amused, faintly smug expression froze, and he paled. “That was nearly ten years ago. That has nothing to do with Mirina. Nothing to do with anything.”
“You haven’t told her.”
“I didn’t know her. I was young, foolish, and I paid for my mistake.”
“Why don’t you explain to me, Mr. Slade, how you came to make that mistake?”
“It has nothing to do with this.”
“Indulge me.”
“Damn it, it was one night out of my life. One night. I’d had too much to drink, was stupid enough to mix the liquor with chemicals. The woman killed herself. It was proven the overdose was self-inflicted.”
Interesting, Eve thought. “But you were there,” she hazarded.
“I was zoned. I’d lost more heavily than I could afford at roulette, and between us we made a scene. I told you I was young. I blamed my bad luck on her. Maybe I did threaten her. I just don’t remember. Yes, we argued publicly, she struck me, and I struck her back. I’m not proud of it. Then I just don’t remember.”
“Don’t remember, Mr. Slade?”
“As I testified, the next thing I remember is waking up in some filthy little room. We were in bed, naked. And she was dead. I was still groggy. Security came in. I must have called them. They took pictures. I was assured the pictures were destroyed after the case was closed and I was exonerated. I barely knew the woman,” he continued, heating up. “I’d picked her up in the bar—or thought I had. My attorney discovered she was a professional companion, unlicensed, working the casinos.”
He closed his eyes. “Do you think I want Mirina to know that I was, however briefly, accused of murdering an unlicensed whore?”
“No,” Eve said quietly. “I don’t imagine you do. And as you said, Mr. Slade, you’d do anything to keep her. Anything at all.”
Hammett was waiting for her the moment she stepped out of the commander’s office. The hollows in his cheeks seemed deeper, his skin grayer.
“I’d hoped to have a moment, Lieutenant—Eve.”
She gestured behind her, let him slip into the room first, then closed the door on the murmurs of conversation.
“This is a difficult day for you, George.”
“Yes, very difficult. I wanted to ask, needed to know . . . Is there anything more? Anything at all?”
“The investigation’s proceeding. There’s nothing I can tell you that you wouldn’t have heard through the media.”
“There must be more.” His voice rose before he could control it. “Something.”
She could feel pity, even when there was suspicion. “Everything that can be done is being done.”
“You’ve interviewed Marco, her children, even Randy. If there is anything they knew, anything they told you that might help, I have a right to be told.”
Nerves? she wondered. Or grief? “No,” she said quietly, “you don’t. I can’t give you any information acquired during an interview or through investigative procedure.”
“We’re talking about the murder of the woman I loved!” He exploded with it, his pale face flushing dark. “We might have been married.”
“Were you planning to be married, George?”