She rose, grateful when the bell rang. “That’s going to be for me. I’m going to put the sweepers on the study first, and I’m going through the house personally. I’ve got uniforms who’ll knock on doors, see if any of the neighbors saw anything. I’m going to have a uniform take you home.”
She pulled out her ’link. “Would you put all the names and contact data I asked for on here?”
“Charlie should. I’m terrible with electronics.”
“So am I.” She passed her ’link to Mira. “It’s going to be okay.”
Dennis rose. “You’re such a smart woman. Such a good girl,” he added to her baffled surprise. Then he kissed her cheek, sweetly, leaving a faint tickle from the stubble he’d probably missed when shaving. “Thank you.”
Eve felt that tickle work its way into her heart as she went to answer the door.
2
Eve saw them off, spoke with the uniforms, the sweepers, and decided to take the house top to bottom. But as she started up the stairs, she stopped, sat down on one.
And tagged Roarke.
She led with “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” His face filled the screen and, boy, what a face. It never failed to strike how some days the gods, the angels, the poets, the artists all got together to create something perfect. A beautifully carved mouth, wildly, impossibly blue eyes, sculpted cheekbones all framed by thick black silk.
“You’ve caught a case,” he continued, with those mists of Ireland whispering in his voice to complete the perfection.
“Sort of. No body, which makes it different. Or none yet. Dennis Mira was attacked.”
“What?” The just-for-her smile in his eyes vanished. “Is he hurt? What hospital? I’ll meet you.”
“He’s okay. I just sent them home. He took a pretty good whack to the back of the head, then smacked his temple on the floor when he fell. Probably has a mild concussion, but Mira’s on it.”
“Where are you?”
“At his grandfather’s house. Mr. Mira’s grandfather. Or it was. It’s half Mr. Mira’s, half his cousin’s—former Senator Edward Mira—who was also attacked, and is currently missing. I need to go through the house here to make sure he’s not dead and stuffed in a closet, then I have to talk to some people on the way home. I don’t know how long—”
“Give me the address there.”
“Roarke, it’s in SoHo. There’s no need for you to come all the way down here on a night like this.”
“You can give me the address or I can find it for myself. Either way, I’m on my way.”
She gave him the address.
She’d gone through the top floor—both wings—before he got there. And could admit, seeing him and the go-cup of coffee he held out lifted her mood.
“I was going to make dinner.”
Those wonderful lips curved, then brushed hers. “Were you now?”
“Hand to God. Nothing cooking at the shop, so I was heading out, figured I might beat you home, and set up wine and candles and spaghetti right in the dining room.”
“I’ll treasure the thought.”
“Mira caught me. You don’t see her seriously shaken often, and she was. Mr. Mira contacted her when he came to—took the bash downstairs in the study—and asked her to bring me.”
“Of course he did. He’s an intelligent man.”
“I’ll give you the background as I look for possibly dead Edward, but tell me first, Mr. Buys the Entire World and Its Satellites, if you were going to buy this place, what would you give for it?”
“I haven’t done a full walk-through, but from what I’ve seen it’s beautifully preserved and maintained. Likely built in the 1930s. Round about six thousand square feet, and in this neighborhood? I expect I’d offer about ten. If I were selling, I’d ask fifteen.”