Golden in Death(15)
“Uh-uh. That’s nuts.” She bit decisively into bacon. “I don’t know how to teach.”
He angled his head—then pointed a finger at the cat to halt Galahad’s bacon belly crawl toward the table. “I’ll just say: Peabody, Detective Delia.”
“That wasn’t teaching. That was training. She was already a cop. And she wasn’t a kid.”
Undeterred, smooth as velvet, Roarke laid out his case. “Some of them will be troubled, come from difficult homes, much as Rochelle’s brother before he turned his all-too-short life around. Much as you and I did, for all that. Who better to show them what a cop is, should be, can be than one who believes in the value of protect and serve? And kicks ass doing it?”
The man could negotiate with God and come out ahead, she thought. “You said that last thing to try to flatter me into it.”
“You’ll think about it.” He gave her thigh a friendly pat.
Since she didn’t want to think about it, she polished off breakfast.
“I need to get started.”
She got up to gather up her badge, restraints, pocketknife, ’link, communicator, some cash before putting on the jacket.
Rising, giving Galahad a warning look, Roarke went to her, gathered her in.
Distressed, she hugged back. “That feels like worry. Don’t start the day with worry about me.”
“It’s not. You’ll take care of my cop. It’s … grabbing on to what matters, and to the moment.” He tipped her face up, kissed her. Then once again. “Until tonight.”
Then he patted her ass, and made the vague concern inside her slide away again. “And don’t be too hard on Dickhead.”
“That’ll be up to him.” She started out, paused at the door. “If I get home first—it happens—I’ll leave the lights on.”
He flashed a smile, and she took it with her down the stairs and out to the car.
Then she was out of the gates, into the early traffic. Too early, by about a half hour, she judged, for the ad blimps to blast. Not too early for the maxibuses, the first enterprising cart operator to have coffee going and what passed for bagels at the ready or the commuter airtrams to rumble across the sky with their load of sleepy people.
And not too late, apparently, for a couple of street LCs to grab cart coffee and what passed for bagels after a long night’s work.
A block later, she spotted a woman in a gold evening gown, a short, silver cape over her shoulders, strolling along the sidewalk in her skyscraper heels.
Possibly an LC, Eve thought, though definitely not street level. And undoubtedly another long night.
She saw a dog walker herding a bunch of tiny, weird-looking dogs with pink bows in their hair, a jogger in neon red sprinting toward an invisible finish line, a sidewalk sleeper still dozing in a doorway, a woman at an already open market busily filling the outside stall with flowers for sale, and through a third-story window, a woman in a tiger-print leotard spinning in pirouettes.
If you didn’t love New York, she thought, you didn’t belong there.
And because she loved it, because she belonged there, because she was a murder cop who believed in protect and serve, she turned her mind to murder.
4
Because she wanted impressions of the walk Abner routinely took to and from work, Eve hunted for parking near the residence. It took time, even on the quiet street, but she had some to spare. Once she’d pulled in curbside, she hiked the block and a half back to the house with its sealed door, checked the time, started from there.
Neither doctor owned a vehicle. She imagined in seriously bad weather, they took a cab or car service the few blocks to their respective workplaces.
But her information at this point indicated Abner walked routinely—sometimes leaving early enough to squeeze in a run, or a workout at his gym.
He liked to take his runs—again in all but seriously inclement weather—in Hudson River Park. So they’d check that area, too, see if they could find other runners who knew him, interacted with him.
But on most workdays he’d taken this route with its pretty brick or brownstone homes, its scatter of upscale boutiques, its restaurants, cafés. She passed a bakery, paused. She could see a line had already formed at the counter inside.
Worth a stop on the way back, Eve decided, as it was most likely where the victim picked up the baked goods Louise said he’d sometimes brought to the clinic.
He likely had a favorite flower place, too, she thought. Fresh flowers in the house, flowers to the clinic.
Just one of a number of places his killer might have seen him, interacted with him.
Had to know his routine, she thought as she turned a corner. Had to know or strongly believe he’d be home to take the package, that he’d be home alone. Or else why pay for the expedited morning shipping?
Not that it cost the killer anything, but why bother if when he opened it didn’t so much matter?
She stopped outside the townhouse, another brownstone, that held the offices. One of the plaques, gold against the brown, said:
Dr. Kent Abner
Pediatrics
The rails up the short steps glowed deep, dark bronze. Two white pots flanked the white door and held sunny little daffodils, some purple flower she couldn’t identify, and some greens that trailed over the pots.