"It's our responsibility to report – " Morse began.
"Morse, you don't know shit about responsibility. All you know is how to count the minutes you're on air, front and center. The more people die, the bigger your ratings. You can quote me on that one." She turned on her heel.
"Feel better?" Roarke asked her when they were outside again.
"Not a hell of a lot. Impressions?"
"The newsroom's in turmoil, too many people doing too many things. They're all jumpy. The one you talked to initially about Nadine?"
"Rigley. He's a little fish. I think they hired him for his teeth."
"He's been biting his nails. There were several others who looked ashamed when you made your little speech. They turned away, got very busy, but they weren't doing anything. Several more looked quietly pleased when you took a couple layers off Morse. I don't believe he's well liked."
"Big surprise."
"He's better than I'd thought," Roarke mused.
"Morse? At what? Slinging shit?"
"Image," Roarke corrected. "Which is often the same thing. He pulls out all those emotions. He doesn't feel any of them, but he knows how to make them play over his face, in his voice. He's in the right field and will definitely move up."
"God help us." She leaned against Roarke's car. "Do you think he knows more than he's put on air?"
"I think it's possible. Highly possible. He's enjoying stringing this out, particularly now that he's in charge of the story. And he hates your guts."
"Oh, now I'm hurt." She started to open the door, then turned back. "Hates me?"
"He'll ruin you if he can. Watch yourself."
"He can make me look foolish, but he can't ruin me." She wrenched the door open. "Where the hell is Nadine? It's not like her, Roarke. I understand how she feels about Louise, but it's not like her to take off, not to tell me, to hand a story this size to that bastard."
"People react in different ways to shock and grief."
"It's stupid. She was a target. She could still be a target. We have to find her."
"Is that your way of squirming out of the opera?"
Eve got in the car, stretched out her legs. "No, that's just a little side benefit. Let's run by her place, okay? She's on Eightieth between Second and Third."
"All right. But you have no excuse to squirm out of the cocktail party tomorrow night."
"Cocktail party? What cocktail party?"
"The one I arranged fully a month ago," he reminded her as he slipped in beside her. "To kick off the fund-raiser for the Art Institute on Station Grimaldi. Which you agreed to attend and to help host."
She remembered, all right. He'd brought home some fancy dress she was supposed to wear. "Wasn't I drunk when I agreed? The word of a drunk is worthless."
"No, you weren't." He smiled as he skimmed from the visitors' lot. "You were, however, naked, panting, and I believe very close to begging."
"Bull." Actually, she thought, folding her arms, he may have been right. The details were hazy. "Okay, okay, I'll be there, I'll be there with a stupid smile in some fancy dress that cost you too much money for too little material. Unless… something comes up."
"Something?"
She sighed. He only asked her to do one of his silly gigs when it was important to him. "Police business. Only if it's urgent police business. Barring that, I'll stick for the whole fussy mess."
"I don't suppose you could try to enjoy it?"
"Maybe I could." She turned her head and on impulse lifted a hand to his cheek. "A little."
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
No one answered the buzzer at Nadine's door. The recording requested simply that the caller leave a message, which would be returned at the earliest possible time.
"She could be in there brooding," Eve mused, rocking on her heels as she considered. "Or she could be at some tony resort. She slipped her guard plenty over the past few days. She's a slick one, our Nadine."
"And you'll feel better if you know."
"Yeah." Brow furrowed, Eve considered using her police emergency code to bypass security. She didn't have enough cause, and she balled her hands in her pockets.
"Ethics," Roarke said. "It's always an education to watch you struggle with them. Let me help you out." He took out a small pocket knife and pried open the handplate.
"Jesus, Roarke, tampering with security will get you six months house arrest."
"Um-hmm." Calmly, he studied the circuits. "I'm a bit out of practice. We make this model, you know."
"Put that damn thing back together, and don't – "
But he was already bypassing the main board, working with a speed and efficiency that made her wince.
"Out of practice, my butt," she mumbled when the lock light went from red to green.
"I always had a knack." The door slid open, and he tugged her inside.
"Security tampering, breaking and entering, private property trespass. Oh, it's just mounting up."
"But you'll wait for me, won't you?" With one hand still on Eve's arm, he studied the living area. It was clean, cool, spare in furnishings, but with an expensive minimalistic style.
"She lives well," he commented, noting the gleam on the tile floor, the few objects d'art on spearing clear pedestals. "But she doesn't come here often."
Eve knew he had a good eye, and nodded. "No, she doesn't really live here, just sleeps here sometimes. There's nothing out of place, no dents in the cushions." She walked past him toward the adjoining kitchen, punched the available menu on the AutoChef. "Doesn't keep a lot of food on hand, either. Mostly cheese and fruit."
Eve thought about her empty stomach, was tempted, but resisted. She headed out across the wide living space toward a bedroom. "Office," she stated, studying the equipment, the console, the wide screen it faced. "She lives here some. Shoes under the console, single earring by the link, empty cup, probably coffee."
The second bedroom was larger, the sheets on the unmade bed twisted as if someone had wrapped and unwrapped themselves through a particularly long night.
Eve spotted the suit Nadine had been wearing on the night of Louise's murder on the floor, kicked under a table where a vase of daisies wilted.
They were signs of pain, and they made her sorry. She walked to the closet and hit the button to open it. "Christ, how could you tell if she packed anything? She's got enough clothes for a ten-woman model troupe." Still, she looked through them while Roarke moved to the bedside 'link and ran the record disc back to the beginning. Eve glanced over her shoulder, saw what he was up to. She only moved her shoulders.
"Might as well completely invade her privacy."
Eve continued to search for some sign that Nadine had gone off on a trip while the calls and messages played back.
She listened with some amusement to some frank sexual byplay between Nadine and some man named Ralph. There were a lot of innuendoes, overt suggestions, and laughter before the transmission ended with a promise to get together when he got into town.
Other calls breezed by: work-oriented, a call to a nearby restaurant for delivery. Ordinary, everyday calls. Then it changed.
Nadine was speaking to the Kirskis the day after the last murder. All of them were weeping. Maybe there was comfort in it, Eve thought as she walked toward the viewer. Maybe sharing tears and shock helped.
I don't know if it matters right now, but the primary investigator, Dallas – Lieutenant Dallas – she won't stop until she finds out who did this to Louise. She won't stop.
"Oh, man." Eve closed her eyes as the transmission ended. There was nothing more, just blank disc, and she opened her eyes again. "Where's the call to the station?" she demanded. "Where's the call? Morse said she called in and requested time off."
"Could have done it from her car, from a portable. In person."
"Let's find out." She whipped out her communicator. "Feeney. I need make, model, and ID number on Nadine Furst's vehicle."