“You shuffle.”
“Hell I do.”
“Hell you don’t. You shuffle, Peabody clomps, McNab prances.”
“If I wore some of the shoes he does, I’d prance, too. Hey, Roarke, didn’t know you were back.”
“Just. I’ll be working at home for another hour or so,” he told Eve. “Then I’ll be in the midtown offices. The book stays here,” he added. “You’re welcome to take it on disc if you need it.”
“What book?” Feeney asked.
“Poetry. Seems our guy took his umbrella name from a poem some guy named Keats wrote a couple hundred years ago.”
“Bet it doesn’t even rhyme. You take Springsteen, McCartney, Lennon. Those boys knew how to rhyme. Classic shit.”
“Not only doesn’t it rhyme, but it’s weird and depressing and mostly stupid.”
“With that canny analysis, I’ll leave you to work.” Carrying the cat, Roarke started toward his office. “I believe I hear McNab’s prance.”
He might have been wearing candy-apple red airboots, but he didn’t look any perkier than Peabody. Doing her best to ignore it, Eve sat on the edge of her desk and updated them.
“That explains why we didn’t have any luck at the cyber-joints either,” McNab put in. “It didn’t make sense that nobody’d seen this dude.”
“We can do some morphing probabilities,” Feeney mused. “Most possible face structures, colorings, combos. But basically we’ll be working without a visual ID.”
“I ran some probabilities myself. It’s most likely we’re looking for a single male between twenty-five and forty. Upper income bracket, advanced education, with some sort of sexual dysfunction or perversion. It’s most probable he lives in the city. Feeney, where’d he get the high-priced illegals?”
“Dealers with Rabbit cater to a small, exclusive clientele. Aren’t that many of them. Only one in the city I know of, but I can check with Illegals to see if there’s more. Nobody deals in Whore that I know of. Just isn’t cost effective.”
“But at one time it was used in sex therapy, and for LC training?”
“Yeah, but the price tag was too high, and the substance too unpredictable.”
“Okay.” But it gave her more threads to pull. “We’ll back off the cyber-joints for now. McNab, start on the morphings. Feeney, see what you can find out from Illegals. Once I hammer Dickhead into identifying brands of the putty and enhancers, the wig, we’ll have that trail to follow. I got a tag on the wine. My source tells me there were three thousand and fifty bottles of that label and vintage sold in this borough. Peabody and I will run that down, and we’ll see if we can nail down the pink roses. The guy spends money—wine, flowers, enhancements, illegals—then he’s left a trail. We’re going to find it. Peabody, you’re with me.”
When they were in the car, Eve took a long breath. “If you’re having trouble sleeping, take a pill.”
“That’s some advice coming from you.”
“Then consider it an order.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is really pissing me off.” Eve punched it, roared up the drive.
Peabody’s chin jutted out so far, Eve was surprised it didn’t spear through the windshield. “I apologize if my personal difficulties are an annoyance to you, Lieutenant.”
“If you can’t do better sarcasm than that, give it up.” She swung through the gates, then slammed on the brakes. “Do you want time off?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t sir me, Peabody, in that tone or I’ll kick your ass right here and now.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Her voice went watery. “I don’t even like McNab. He’s annoying and he’s a jerk and he’s stupid. So w
hat if the sex was great? And maybe we had some laughs. Big deal. It’s not like we were serious or anything. It’s not like it gives him the right to give me ultimatums or make insulting comments and draw asshole conclusions.”
“Have you slept with Charles yet?”