“See you tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Eve demanded as Roarke drew her out of the room.
“Saturday.”
“How can it be Saturday already?”
“Blame Friday.” He laid his hands on her shoulders, rubbed there until her eyes met his. “You couldn’t have saved him.”
“I know that in my head. I’m working on getting the rest of me there.”
“Work harder on that.” He tipped her face up, kissed her.
He knew what was inside her, in her head and in the rest of her. Because he knew, some of the sorrow eased. Eve framed his face, kissed him back.
“Thanks for the help.”
She walked back, found Peabody in the kitchen studying the chicken in the oven.
“You know, that looks like it would’ve been really good. So, Willow Gantry, sixty-three-year-old child-care provider. No record. I went ahead and checked with the day care company she works for. She and her husband of thirty-eight years left two days ago to visit their daughter and her husband, who are expecting baby number two any minute. They drove to the transpo station themselves.”
“Busted it from long-term parking. Probably left it parked on the street somewhere when they were done. Go ahead and have airport security try to locate it,” Eve told her. “If it’s not there, let’s do the Gantrys a solid and put out an alert on it. We can get it back to them.”
“It would suck to come home, find your car stolen.”
“Worse things happen, but why should this? Let’s take the gardener and his kid.”
“There’s a kid?” Distress jumped into Peabody’s eyes. “A kid saw that?”
“Yeah, there’s a kid. Did I leave that out?” Grateful Peabody was there to deal with the kid factor, Eve opened the door.
Eve tagged it as staff quarters, probably a live-in housekeeper or Summerset type. Nice, attractive living area, roomy, nicely appointed.
The uniform sat in one of the oversized chairs, talking to the kid about baseball. A good touch from Eve’s point of view, and had her second grateful in a row when she saw the kid was about sixteen.
He sat with his father on a high-armed sofa, arguing with the cop over a call at third base in the previous night’s game.
The kid was spare and trim, with skin like rich, creamy cocoa and just an inch away from beautiful. She imagined girls’ hearts fluttered if he aimed those liquid brown eyes in their direction.
The father, also spare and trim, held a ball cap in his hands, and turned it round and round with nervous fingers. He didn’t have the kid’s beauty, but a weathered, sculpted face, and dark glossy hair that sprang in tiny ringlets.
He looked up as Eve stepped in, that face both pained and hopeful.
“Officer, I’ll need the room.”
“Yes, sir. A Mets fan.” The uniform shook his head in mock pity as he rose. “You meet all kinds.”
“Ah, come on!” The kid laughed, but his eyes darted to Eve, too, and he inched a little closer to his father.
“I’m Lieutenant Dallas.” Eve gestured them down when both father and son started to stand. “This is Detective Peabody.”
“I’m James Manuel, and my son, Chaz.”
“Hard day for you,” she said, and sat in the chair the uniform had vacated. “You work for Mr. Frost and Ms. Simpson.”
“Yes. I do their gardens, tend the pond. I have several customers in this neighborhood. They’re away. They weren’t here when . . . this happened.”
“So I understand. Why were you and your son here this morning?”