"What kind of commotion?"
"I dunno. Like noise and maybe somebody yelling, and people coming. So he ducks around the corner in case who owns the van maybe saw him trying to break in. What he sees is two guys and one of 'em's carrying this big bag over his shoulder. The other – get this – is holding what Pokey says looks like a gun – like he's seen on-screen and on discs and shit. So they toss this bag in the back, and it makes a thump when it hits. Then they get in the front and drive away."
He scooped up more eggs, washed them down with the pissy-looking liquid in his glass. "I'm just sitting here thinking on it and wondering if I should tag you and fill you in, then here you are." He grinned at her. "Maybe it was Fixer in that bag. Maybe they took him off in it, and did him and tossed him in the river. Maybe."
"Pokey get the vehicle ID?"
"Nah. Pokey, he's not too smart, you know. And he said his hand was on fire and he didn't think nothing of it until I come around asking about Fixer."
"Black Airstream van?"
"Yeah, with the zapper. And oh yeah, he says how it had the full blast entertainment center in the dash. That's how come he thought maybe to get in. Pokey, he sometimes trades off electronics."
"Sounds like a real solid citizen."
"Yeah, he votes and everything. So how about it, Dallas, that's good data, right?"
She took out twenty. "If it leads anywhere, there's twenty more. Now, how much do you know about Fixer's military history?"
The twenty vanished inside one of the pockets in Ratso's dirty coat. "History?"
"What he did in the army? He ever talk to you about it?"
"Not much. Couple times when we was drinking and he sucked down too many. He said he took out plenty of targets during the Wars. Said how the army called 'em targets 'cause they didn't have the balls to call them people. He had a real hard-on for the army. Said how he gave them every fucking thing he had, and they took everything. Um, how they thought they could throw money at him to make it right. He took their money and screw 'em. Screw the cops, too, and the CIA and the goddamn president of the U.S. of A., too. But that was only when he was sloppy. Otherwise, he never said nothing."
"Have you ever heard anything about Apollo or Cassandra?"
Ratso swiped a hand under his nose. "Table dancer over at the Peek-A-Boo goes by Cassandra. She got tits like watermelons."
Eve shook her head. "No, this is something else. You ask around, Ratso, but ask around real careful. And if you hear anything, don't wonder if you should tag me. Just do it."
"Okay, but I'm kinda low on operating expenses."
She rose, then tossed another twenty on the table. "Don't waste my money," she warned. "Peabody."
"I'll start the run on Airstream vans," Peabody said, "New York and New Jersey registrations."
"Goddamn it!" Eve dashed toward her vehicle. "Look at this shit, would you?" she demanded, jerking a thumb toward the bright red frowny face someone had painted on her dented hood. "No respect. No respect whatsoever for city property."
Peabody coughed, forced her face into stern, disapproving lines. "It's a disgrace, sir. Absolutely."
"Was that a smirk, Officer?"
"No sir, it certainly was not a smirk. It was a scowl. A righteous scowl. Should I canvas the area for spray cans, Lieutenant?"
"Kiss my ass." Eve slammed into the car, giving Peabody just enough time to snort out the laugh that had been burning in her chest.
"I do," she murmured. "Constantly." She let out a long breath, shook off the grin, and climbed in the passenger seat.
"We'll finish out the shift at my home office. I'll be damned if I'm going to park this thing in the garage and have the precinct snickering."
"That works for me. You've got better food." And there'd be no chance of McNab swinging through to do one of his tap dances.
"Have you got Lisbeth Cooke's address? We can swing by and see if we can catch her before we take the rest of this home."
"Yes, sir, I believe it's on the way." Peabody called it up. "That's just off Madison at Eighty-third. Should I call and set up an interview?"
"No, let's surprise her."
It was obvious they did, and that Lisbeth didn't care for surprises. "I don't have to speak to you," she said when she opened the door. "Not without my attorney present."
"Call him," Eve suggested. "Since you've got something to hide."
"I've got nothing to hide. I've given you my statement, I've interviewed with the prosecuting attorney's office. I've taken the plea, and that's it."
"Since it's all neat and tidy, it shouldn't bother you to talk to me. Unless everything you stated was a lie."
Lisbeth's eyes flashed. Her chin jutted. Pride, Eve saw, had been the right target.
"I don't lie. I insist on honesty, for myself and the people I'm involved with. Honesty, loyalty, and respect."
"Otherwise, you kill them. We've established that."
Something flickered in Lisbeth's eyes, then her mouth thinned and they were cool and hard again. "What do you want?"
"Just a few questions to tidy up my case file." Eve angled her head. "Don't you include neatness in your list of required virtues?"
Lisbeth stepped back. "I warn you, the minute I feel you're out of line, I'm calling my representative. I can file harassment charges."
"Note that down, Peabody. No harassing Ms. Cooke."
"So noted, Lieutenant."
"I don't like you."
"Aw well, now you've hurt my feelings."
Eve studied the living area, the absolute order, the flawless taste. Style, she mused, she had to admit the woman had style. She could even admire it, in the twin streamlined sofas in deep green and blue stripes that looked as comfortable as they did attractive. In the trim, smoked glass tables and the vivid paintings of seascapes.
There was a case filled with books with faded leather bindings she knew Roarke would approve of, and a view of the city neatly framed with swept-back curtains.
"Nice place." Eve turned to study the perfectly groomed woman in casual at-home wear of buff-colored slacks and tunic.
"I don't believe you're here to discuss my decorating skills."
"J. Clarence help you pick out your knickknacks?"
"No. J. C.'s taste ran the gamut from the absurd to the tacky."
Rather than wait for an invitation, Eve sat on the sofa, stretched out her legs. "You didn't seem to have much in common."
"On the contrary, we enjoyed a great many of the same things. And I believed he had a warm, generous, and honest heart. I was wrong."
"A couple hundred million seems pretty damn generous to me."
Lisbeth merely turned away, took a bottle of water from a built-in minifridge. "I wasn't speaking of money," she said, and poured the water into a heavy, faceted glass. "But of spirit. However, yes, J. C. was very generous with money."
"He paid you to sleep with him."
Glass snapped against glass as Lisbeth slammed down her water. "He certainly did not. The financial arrangement was a separate matter, a personal one mutually agreed to. It kept us both comfortable."
"Lisbeth, you were taking the guy for a million a year."
"I was not taking him for anything. We had an agreement, and part of that agreement included monetary payments. Such arrangements are often made in relationships when one party has considerable financial advantage over the other."
"You have considerable financial advantage now that he's dead."
"So I'm told." She picked up her glass again, watched Eve over the rim. "I was unaware of the terms of his will."
"That's hard to believe. You had an intimate relationship, a long-term and intimate relationship that included, at your own admission, regular monetary payments. And you never discussed, never questioned what would happen in the event of his death."
"He was a robust, healthy man." She tried for a smooth shrug, but it came off in a jerk. "His death wasn't something we focused on. He did tell me I'd be taken care of. I believed him."