“Poor baby.”
She laughed as she caught his hands to draw him to the bed. Then gave him a little nudge to send him down on his back. “I really think skin-to-skin’s the only answer,” she continued as she reached around, unhooked her bra.
“Anything I can do.”
“I’ve got some ideas on that.” She tossed the bra, unbuttoned her pants.
As she slid naked onto him, Eve felt the heat spread over the back of her neck. She had to fight an urge to shift her feet.
What had she been thinking, bringing this to Feeney? Viewing it with him. Maybe it was stupid, but she knew damn well he was as mortified and miserable as she was.
If they’d been watching bloody murder—axes hacking, blood spurting, blasters burning into flesh, neither of them would have blinked. But a naked woman, a half-naked man—okay, shit, altogether naked now—enjoying some playful sex?
Torture.
“Okay.” The sound of Feeney’s throat clearing was explosive. “End run,” he ordered. “That’s enough for the anal. No edits or compromises on either.” He didn’t look at her as he spoke, which made her profoundly grateful. “And both are second-generation copies.”
“Neither is the original?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.” Very carefully he resealed them for her.
“Asner.” Embarrassment faded away as she considered the probabilities. “The PI. Keeping the original, maybe to try a little squeeze of his own. Or maybe he just likes to watch.”
“You can watch a copy.”
“Yeah. He kept the original, and if he sold it, he could bill it that way.” She’d still have to search K.T.’s trailer, but she leaned heavy toward the PI. “Sell it to some gossip channel, or do a little double-dipping with the players. I need to have a conversation with A. A. Asner.” She gathered up the recordings. “Thanks, Feeney.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Cheeks still mortification pink, he hunched back over his work.
As she headed down to her office to gather what she wanted to take home, she pulled out her ’link to try Asner’s office.
Barbie’s squeaky voice informed her the offices were closed, gave her the hours of operation, and invited her to leave a detailed message.
“This is Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD. I need to speak with Mr. Asner as soon as possible. I have some routine questions regarding an active investigation.”
She left it at that. Asner had at least a hundred thousand, and might be tempted to rabbit if she pushed too hard.
Considering the time, how long the trip to the studio, the search might take—especially now that she intended to search Matthew’s trailer as well—she tried Roarke next.
“Lieutenant.” His face came on-screen. “What nice timing. I’ve just finished a meeting.”
“You had a meeting. What a shock.” She frowned at the background noise, the blurred view behind his pretty face. “Are you at transpo? Do you have to go somewhere?”
“No. I had to come back from somewhere. Cleveland, actually.”
“Okay. Listen, I’ve got to go back to the studio, do a search of the vic’s trailer and some other stuff. I’m going to be late.”
“You’re going to be late? What a shock.”
“I should’ve seen that coming.”
“I’ll meet you. There’s an errand I could take care of downtown. I’ll meet you at the studio—Harris’s trailer, you said. When we’re done, we’ll have some dinner with a river view.”
“Sounds like a plan. Nothing fancy, okay?”
“Pizza and beer.”
“Are you trying to seduce me?”
He laughed. “Always. I’ll see you shortly.”
She loaded up what she wanted, swung back into the bullpen. “Neither recording’s the original,” she told Peabody. “Asner is still AWOL as far as I know. We’ll try him at home first thing in the morning. Unless you hear otherwise, just meet me there.”
“LT,” Sanchez called out when she turned to leave. “It was the girlfriend—the two dead bangers.”
“Right.”
“Former boyfriend who doesn’t want to be former pulls a knife on the current boyfriend, and sticks him pretty good before current can get his own sticker out. Current’s losing a lot of blood while ex is putting holes in him, and doesn’t have much left to put holes in the ex. The girlfriend picked up the pipe and whaled on the ex. She says she was trying to stop him from killing current—too late for that, but it holds up pretty well. Maybe she wailed harder and longer than might be strictly on the line, but current’s lying there dead or dying.”
“Are you charging her?”
“The thing is, we talked to some people, and they confirm the ex was hassling them, threatening them, started other fights. And he knocked her around pretty good, too, which is what makes him her ex. Maybe we get Man One, maybe Man Two. The PA made some noises, but isn’t enthusiastic about it. Carmichael and me don’t see the point in it.”
“See if Carmichael can talk her into going into one of the victim programs, then spring her if the PA’s good with it.” “Thanks, LT, that’s the way we wanted it to work.” Sometimes, Eve thought, as she sprinted to catch the elevator to the garage, things worked the way you wanted them to work.
She badged her way through security at the studio, and informed them to clear through her expert consultant, civilian, on his arrival.
She went straight back to the small city of trailers.
Lined up close, she noted. Not much privacy here. They looked the same from outside, she thought, except for the names on the doors.
She followed the guard’s directions until she came to Harris’s and the sealed door. Between the woman playing Nadine and the guy playing Feeney. Not, she noted, beside Matthew’s or Marlo’s or Julian’s. She bet that gave Harris something else to bitch about.
She unsealed the door, stepped in.
Sitting or living area, she mused, with brightly colored sofas, an oversized swivel-style leather chair. A table held a bowl of fruit, not as fresh as it had been. In the small kitchen area, the Friggie was fully stocked—water, wine, soft drinks, a selection of cheeses, berries in a clear, unopened container. A bottle of vodka in the freezer.
To get the feel of the place, she started back toward the sleeping area, glanced in the bathroom. Flowers, again not as fresh as they had been, on the counter, and a low-sided box holding soaps, shampoo, lotions.
While the bedroom wasn’t spacious, it held a bed, neatly made, a fancy side chair, a wall screen. The closet was outfitted with rods and drawers.
She started there. She found another bottle of vodka—opened and half empty—in a drawer, and a small bag of zoner tucked into the toe of a boot.
She’d nearly finished the bedroom when she heard the trailer door open. Laying a hand lightly on her weapon, she stepped out—and Roarke came in.
Jesus, would she ever get over how gorgeous he was?
He smiled at her—only more gorgeous—and closed the distance to kiss her.
“Hi,” she said. “How was Cleveland?”
“Windy. And what are we looking for in the late, largely unlamented K.T. Harris’s trailer?”
“Nothing I think we’ll find, but I’ve got to look. I’m about finished in the back. I’ll fill you in.”
He skimmed a fingertip down the dent in her chin. “One of my favorite times of day.”
“You’re in a good mood,” she observed as they walked back.
“I am. It was a productive day.”
“You didn’t buy Cleveland, did you?”
