“Brigit was furious about that, the kind of mad you get when you’re incredibly worried. I don’t know how many times that morning I said to her not to worry about that, how Ava must’ve been panicked. How she must not have been able to think of anything but getting home. It was an awful morning for all of us, Lieutenant. When Ava called to tell us Tommy was gone, we were already packed. I guess we knew she wasn’t coming back. That trip, it’s always the three of us, and…how do you mistake death? We knew she wouldn’t be able to come back.”
Outside Eve walked with Roarke through the crystal cold. “Panicked,” she repeated, “can’t think of anything but getting home. But you can think to leave a message cube. Not to wake your friends, sleeping right in the next rooms. But you can think of ordering a croissant and matching your wrist unit with a bracelet.”
“She didn’t want them to see her.” Roarke opened the passenger door, then stood looking at Eve over it. “She didn’t want them with her, didn’t want to have to put on the façade on the trip back.”
“No, she didn’t. She wanted a little alone time, so she could sit and wallow in how fucking clever she’d been.” Her eyes were flat again, cold again. “I’m going to nail her ass, Roarke. Then we’ll see how clever she is.”
10
UNDER THE PULSING JETS OF THE SHOWER THE next morning, Eve considered her options. She could bring Ava in, try to sweat a confession—fat chance—out of her, or just shake her confidence by letting her know she was being watched.
And she’d lawyer up in a quick, fast minute, sob to the media, and possibly Tibble’s wife. Which would, most likely, alienate possible sources of information such as Forrest, Plowder, and Bride-West.
Sweating her might be satisfying, but likely unproductive at this stage.
She could continue to scrape at layers, cutting through the dirt and the bull until she found enough inconsistencies, enough probable cause to make a solid case.
But it had to be faced, she admitted, ordering the jets off to step into the drying tube. The woman was good. She’d covered her undoubtedly surgically sculpted ass in every direction. Where was the loose end? Eve asked herself as the warm air blew around her. Where was the person whose hands had secured the ropes? Where was the person who’d walked into that bedroom and done the deed Eve was flat-out sure Ava had designed?
A lover was a hard sell. The woman had a husband and a twice-monthly LC, and only so many hours in a day. Could Ava have squeezed in an affair, have juggled that many balls without anyone who knew her suspecting? Not impossible, not for someone that organized and calculating, but…a hard sell.
A friend? Could Plowder or Bride-West—or both—have conspired to kill Thomas Anders? What incentive could Ava have offered them to commit murder? She rolled that around while she pulled on a robe and walked into the bedroom to hunt up clothes.
Roarke sat drinking coffee and scratching Galahad between the ears. Sometime during her shower, she noted, he’d switched from stock reports to the morning news. “They’ve just run a brief interview with Ben on today’s memorial. More of a quick statement, really, as he wouldn’t answer any questions on the nature of his uncle’s death or the investigation. He looked shattered.”
Eve went with black because it was easiest and made it simpler to blend in during a memorial. “Let me ask you this, taking away the fact you like this guy personally. Could he have been having an affair with Ava?”
Roarke muted the screen, watching Eve as she dressed. “I can’t imagine him betraying his uncle in that way—in any way, really—but particularly in that way. Even if his love for Anders was a sham, Ava isn’t his type.”
“Why not?”
“He tends toward younger, career-oriented, athletic types who’d be happy kicking back with a beer.” He paused as she strapped on her weapon. “Good thing I snatched you up before h
e saw you.”
“Well, now I know where to go when I’m done with you. Try this one on. The three women go off to St. Lucia. They go off somewhere together every year, so nobody thinks anything of it. But this year they have more to do than get wrapped in papaya leaves and suck down mimosas.”
She shrugged into her jacket, and as Roarke observed, didn’t so much as glance in the mirror as she crossed over to get coffee.
“One of them comes back to New York clandestinely, kills Tommy as per Ava’s plan while Ava’s ass is covered on St. Lucia. Ava’s there when Greta calls, and she takes her time leaving. Giving her partner time to get back. Then she takes the shuttle home while the other two wait a reasonable amount of time, then call her to cement the story.”
“Involving all three of them? Risky.”
“Maybe Bride-West was still asleep, just as she said in her statement. They slip something in her martini, whatever, and…I’m not buying this myself, so why am I trying to sell it to you?”
He rose, placed his hands on her shoulders, kissed her brow. Then knowing she’d never think to do it herself, walked over to program some breakfast.
“It had to be someone she could trust. Absolutely. Without question. Someone who would kill for her. Her parents are divorced. One lives in Portland, one lives in Chicago. Both remarried. Nothing jumped up and bit me on the runs I did on them, and I can’t find any record of either of them traveling anywhere, much less New York on the night in question. She has no siblings. As far as I can determine she hasn’t seen her ex-husband in about two decades. Who does she know, who does she trust to kill for her and to kill in a very specific way?”
Roarke carried back plates of bacon and eggs. Galahad feigned disinterest. “You’ll have to get the coffee if you’re after more. If I take my eyes off these plates for two seconds, this food will be in the cat’s belly.”
Eve frowned at the plates. “I was going to grab—”
“Now you’re not. Get the coffee, I’m after more.”
She could’ve argued. Thinking about the case made her want to argue, blow off the steam of it. But she wanted another hit of coffee. She got two mugs, came back, and plopped down.
“I got nothing. I got nothing on her. No connection that works. And I’m talking myself into circles.”