A wide corridor, more splashes of red flowers, bursts of art against silver walls, and the double doors of 5100.
“Good security,” Eve commented, noting the door cam, the palm plate, locks. She pressed the buzzer, then stepped out of view so the camera would pick up only Roarke.
As she expected, the door opened without Banks or the security comp inquiring.
“Well, this is a surprise.” He glanced at Eve as she shifted. “And hello.”
She supposed that was the slick charm—the slow smile, the deepening of puppy-brown eyes in a boyishly handsome face. A lot of tousled brown hair with streaks worked in from the sun, or a skilled colorist, framed the face. A sweater of pale gold and dark brown trousers casually covered a trim body.
About six feet, Eve calculated, and the right build according to Cecily Greenspan’s description.
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
He barely looked at her badge, kept the puppy eyes on her face in a way she suspected most women would find flattering.
She wasn’t most women.
“Of course, Roarke’s wife. I’ve seen you on-screen. Read quite a bit about you. Please, come in. It’s good to see you, Roarke.”
He extended a hand. Roarke shook it, coolly polite.
“The lieutenant’s here on police business.”
“That sounds ominous.” But Jordan’s smile never dimmed. “Have a seat. I hope ‘business’ doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink.”
“It does—but you can have all you want.”
The living area exploited the view with a wall of glass and a wide terrace beyond it. Twilight slid over the city,
all soft light while buildings speared and lanced into the deepening sky. It fell glimmering on the river.
Jordan gestured to a conversation grouping of sofas and chairs, all in black and white, making Eve think of a chessboard. A long, narrow fireplace ran flickering along a wall. Over it ranged charcoal and pencil studies of nudes—male and female.
Quiet music gurgled in the background.
“I have an aperitif,” he said, picking up a glass of pale gold liquid. “It’s coffee, black for you, isn’t it? My droid can see to that.”
“No, thanks.” Eve sat to put a stop to the pleasantries. “You were in a relationship with Willimina Karson.”
“Yes. I—that is to say, we ended it several weeks ago. Amicably.”
He sat as well, comfortable, at ease.
“You’re aware, are you not, Ms. Karson was seriously injured this morning in a bombing at the headquarters of Quantum Air?”
His face fell into somber and sorrowful lines—as sketchy, to Eve’s mind, as the charcoals. “I heard this morning. It’s beyond horrible. All those people! An employee of Quantum, an executive? I can’t imagine the mind-set, just can’t. Thank God Willi wasn’t killed, and I’m told is expected to fully recover.”
“Who told you?”
“I . . . heard the bulletin. I confess I’ve been glued to the reports throughout the day as I was sick with worry for Willi. The merger’s going through, even after all this, and she’s doing better already. Such a relief! Have you learned why this man, this maniac, did this?”
“You used some faulty glue if you missed the fact that Paul Rogan was as much a victim as the others who died or were injured this morning. You were aware Quantum and Econo have been in negotiations for several months?”
“Yes. Well aware, yes. Willi has an amazing head for business, and while my strengths run in the art world, she did share some of the ins and outs with me while we were romantically involved.”
He flashed that smile again, lifted his aperitif in an easy toast. “Much as the Icove book and vid indicate you share some of your work with Roarke.”
“You knew the particulars?”