probability roarke is next target is fifty-one-point-five-eight percent. . . .
Eve stood, staring out her skinny office window. The fifty-fifty chance given in the computer's soulless tones didn't comfort her.
"Where will she come at him?"
insufficient data for probability. ...
"I wasn't asking you," she grumbled and pinched her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "Think," she ordered herself. "Think, think. What's in her head?"
More impact, Eve decided, if Julianna went for Roarke when his cop was close. At home then, or at a public or private social event they'd both attend. She called his schedule back on-screen and studied it. Again.
She didn't know how any one person managed that many meetings, deals, conversations, and contacts in one day and stayed sane. But that was Roarke.
All those people, she thought, that he brushed against in any given day. Business associates, staff, employees, waiters, assistants, and assistants to assistants. However brilliant his security, there was always a crack to slither through.
But he was aware of that, she reminded herself, on the most elemental level. The way a tiger would be aware of both predator and prey in his own jungle.
And if she allowed herself to worry into fear over him, she'd miss something.
She sat again, cleared her mind.
In the first wave of Julianna Dunne's killings, she had assumed the role of society princess. A young, glamorous butterfly who'd flitted among the abundant blooms of the wealthy. As one of them, Eve mused.
Her new pattern was efficient employee. Smart, Eve conceded. People rarely took full notice of those who served them. She would stick with that, Eve thought. Almost certainly stick with that level. Server, clerk, domestic.
Whoever the next target, she would likely find her way into his business or his home through his company.
Preferred method, poison. Old-fashioned poison, Eve added. Why? You didn't get your hands dirty that way, and most usually had the opportunity to watch it work. See the shock, confusion, pain. The victim understood a blaster or a blade when it came for him. But poison was subtle, even elegant. And it confused.
But you didn't bop into your local 24/7 and pick up a bottle of cyanide. It was time to track down the source.
Before she did, there was a little business to clear up. She put in a call to Charles Monroe.
The handsome licensed companion picked up on his pocket-link. Eve could hear the murmuring of voices, the quiet clink of china and crystal of a classy restaurant as his face filled the screen.
"Lieutenant Sugar." He beamed. "What a nice surprise."
"You got company?"
"Not quite yet. Client's late, she usually is. What can I do for my favorite avenger of the law?"
"Have you got any professional pals or associates in the Chicago area?"
"Dallas, when one is in the oldest profession, one has pals and associates everywhere."
"Yeah. Well, I need one who's willing to go to Dockport Rehabilitation Center, do a conjugal for an inmate, for the standard police scale."
His face, his tone, went all business. She saw him move, glance down, and knew he'd taken out an e-book. "Male or female companion?"
"Female inmate seeks attractive man with staying power for conjugal episode."
"Time frame?"
"Within the next couple of weeks would be good. Sooner the better. The budget will spring for a two-hour call, no frills, and basic transpo."
"Since I doubt the police are overly concerned with this woman's sexual health, I assume this is payment for information or cooperation in some ongoing investigation."
"Assume whatever." Her face, her tone, mirrored his now. "I need the contact. Can you reach out to an associate in that area? One who can handle himself. She's just after a solid bounce, but she has a violent tendency and I don't want to put anybody green in this situation."