“I already have. No other accounts. No real property, so far, tied to any we have. I’ve gone down another level.”
“Okay.”
When he lifted the domes, rather than the expected oatmeal—
“Waffles! How come?”
“You won.”
“Score!” She immediately drowned hers in syrup.
Galahad, banished from the sofa, began what Eve thought of as a commando crawl toward the waffles.
“Forget it,” she told him even before Roarke could give him the eye. “You didn’t win anything.”
He rolled onto his back, lazily switching his tail, as if contemplating the ceiling.
“We got lucky.” She ate waffles and felt lucky all around.
“How so?”
“Not only did Mars manage to get upstairs—though some bladder in the bar would have required emptying before too much longer anyway. But she managed to get upstairs. And there’s a cop right there. That’s a couple of lucky breaks for the investigation, and bad ones for the killer. Just have to make them work for us.”
She ate more waffles. “Plus, you own the place, and that’s another break because the manager’s smart and competent—and cooperative. And the staff’s smooth. I’m hoping to have the next round of luck with the waitress. If we can get a sketch of the killer, that’ll tie it up pretty nice.”
She studied her next bite of waffles. “Why do they call it a waffle iron?”
He cut another bite. “Because it presses the batter?”
“But does it? Does it really? They’re not flat, and isn’t that the goal with pressing and ironing? They’re sort of puffy with dents in them. Pancakes, I get the name. It’s batter, you pour it on a pan, and you’ve got yourself a pancake. What sort of name is waffle—were they just not sure what it was, so they, you know, waffled? Or does it mean something?”
“The question will haunt me now.”
“Ha.” She ate the bite, deciding that whatever the name, it went down just fine. “I need to hook up with Nadine, go by Seventy-Five to talk to people. Sometimes Trina’s there. Lurking around with all her gunk and goo and paint.”
Roarke gave her knee a bolstering pat. “Don’t be a coward, Lieutenant.”
Scowling, Eve polished off her breakfast. “Lurking,” she repeated. “And I’ll lay down fifty right now, if she’s lurking, she’s going to want to do stuff to my hair, and that leads to doing other stuff. She gave me the hard eye when we went to Bella’s birthday deal—I know when she’s giving me that look. I’ve got to slap some of that cream gunk on my face before I go. She’ll know if I don’t. She just knows. It’s creepy.”
Rising, she headed to the closet.
This, she feared, would always give her a jolt. The remodel had swollen the space, expanded it, added stuff—like a computer.
She gave the closet comp the hard eye.
Damned if she’d use a stupid computer to put clothes on her ass.
Brown, she decided. The brown robe was good, so brown was good.
She grabbed a jacket, turned to the pants and trouser area, reached for brown, stopped, reached a couple of choices over. Not only brown—maybe a darker brown like the robe, but it had a line of still-darker leather down the outside of the legs, along the pockets.
She had a weakness for leather.
She didn’t want to try to think about what went with the browns, so she searched through the built-ins until she found a white sweater. Not snow-white, she thought as she began to dress, but sort of like the color of the oatmeal she hadn’t had to eat that morning.
That sort of made it brown, too. Nice, easy brown.
Belt, boots, done.