“Jesus. Cops. You’re always hassling a guy.”
“Yeah. It’s the part of the job that gets me up out of bed every morning with a big smile on my face.”
He blew out a breath. “I don’t want the guys to hear about it.”
“I’m the soul of fricking discretion.”
He shifted his gaze up, ran it over her face, shifted it to Roarke, and hunched his shoulder. “You shouldn’t oughta get the wrong idea. I ain’t no fairy or nothing. Don’t know why guys want to bang each other when there’s women around. But you know, live and let.”
“That’s a touching philosophy, Randall. Spill.”
He pulled on his nose, shuffled his feet. “Just that . . . last assault bust, they say I gotta take anger management and shit. So I stop punching people and starting fights. But I never punched nobody didn’t ask for it.”
Eve supposed the flaw was in her, but she was starting to like him. “I know the feeling.”
“So they, shit, they say I should do some therapy kind of deal. Occupational, recreational, relaxational. What all. I sign up for this class in, ah, crafts.”
“You do crafts.”
“Don’t make me no fairy or nothing.” He gave Roarke a steely look as if daring him to disagree.
“Did you make the curtains?” Roarke asked, pleasantly.
“Yeah. So?” His fists bunched at his sides.
“It’s very good work. A nice use, I’d say, of fabric and color.”
“Well.” He eyed Roarke, eyed the curtains. Then shrugged. “They come out okay. It’s constructive and, you know, therapeutic. I sorta got into it. I was working on the pillows there at Total Crafts, they got clubs and shit, and instructors. That’s where I was the night you’re saying. They give you a break on the supplies and shit, and you can use their machines you need to. And it’s kinda interesting is all. I got a class tonight, on needlepoint. You can make all kinds of shit, you know what you’re doing.”
“Your instructor and classmates verify this?”
“Yeah. But, hey, you go down there asking questions, talking about my sheet, it’s gonna mess me up. Coupla skirts in there I’m thinking about hitting on, and it’s gonna mess me up.”
“You forgot about me being the soul of discretion, Randall. Any of your buddies know about your hobby?”
His face went to stark, stupefied shock. “Hell, no. You think I’d mouth off about fricking curtains and pillows to the guys? They’d rag me till I had to pound on them. Then I wouldn’t be managing my anger issues and all that.”
“Got a point,” Eve agreed.
“You knew it wasn’t him when he opened the door.” Roarke slid back behind the wheel.
“Yeah, but you’ve got to run the lap. He says his buddies don’t know, but it’s possible one does. Or somebody he works with, somebody he’s played pool with. A neighbor.” She lifted a shoulder. “He nips the cord from Randall, or uses his name to buy it. You can’t discount long shots. Let’s hit the next.”
She went through the paces because it had to be done, but she didn’t quibble when Roarke announced it was time for a meal. Nor did she quibble over his choice of a French place with candles on the table and waiters with their noses in the air.
His name got them a corner booth in thirty seconds flat, with the expected fawning service. But the food was choice.
Still, she brooded over it, picked at it, and did more rearranging of it on her plate than eating it.
“Tell me what’s troubling you.” He laid a hand over hers. “It’s more than the case.”
“I guess there’s a lot going around in my head.”
“Give me one.”
“I told Peabody about . . . I told her about when I was a kid.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “I wondered if you ever would. It would’ve been difficult for both of you.”