Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,11
work to finish up before Eve gets home.”
“Whenever that might be.”
“Whenever. Finish your whiskey, and thanks in advance for the pasta.”
When Roarke went out, the cat obviously considered his options, then decided on Summerset’s lap.
As Roarke had done, Summerset sipped his whiskey and scratched Galahad’s belly.
“Will she have made it through the day without getting bloodied, do you think? Well, we’ll hope for it.”
3
She came home unbloodied, but with her brain scorched. Why, why had she opted to end her day as she’d started it? With paperwork, with numbers, percentages, reports?
Whatever smug satisfaction she gained from being completely caught up would die within twenty-four hours when it piled up again.
She stepped in out of the whoosh of wind to face the looming presence of Summerset.
“Neither late nor bleeding.” His eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. “One expects a tympany.”
She didn’t know what the hell a tympany was, but knew damn well he’d had that one ready. Two could play. She studied him as she shrugged out of her coat and the cat did his greeting wind and rub.
“Did you go out in this today?”
“I had marketing.”
“That explains the reports of a flying skeleton.” She tossed her outdoor gear on the newel post and, considering it a draw, headed upstairs with Galahad trotting behind her.
She considered going straight to the bedroom, ditching the work clothes, but habit sent her to her home office. She heard Roarke’s voice from his adjoining office. Something about numbers, why was it always numbers? At least she didn’t have to decipher these.
He’d turned on the fire, and that made a nice welcome home. She decided the next step of welcome equaled a really big glass of wine.
As she chose one, opened it, it occurred to her she hadn’t had much taste for wine pre-Roarke. Could be, she thought, due to the fact that the wine she could afford in those days had been one dubious step up from horse piss.
She poured two glasses—Roarke’s Italian label because she had a yen for spaghetti and meatballs—and wandered into his office. She’d intended to simply set his glass on his desk and leave him to finish up the ’link meeting, but he signaled her to wait.
She noted the two people—one male, one female—on-screen. Everybody talked about those numbers, and margins and whatever the fuck. So she sipped her wine—definitely not horse piss—and walked over to his windows.
A fresh gust had the trees, right now still as bony as Summerset, bowing and swaying. She could see the lights of the city beyond the gates. Right then, from that vantage, it seemed more fanciful than the house she lived in.
Only minutes before she’d been in the thick of it, pushing and shoving her way through traffic, watching the sea of pedestrians surge through intersections. Every one of them, she thought, in a desperate rush to get somewhere.
Now she was out of it, and somewhere—exactly where—she wanted to be. Added to it, an evening without murder clawing at her brain.
Maybe she should pull out a cold case at random, see if fresh eyes and new angles could heat it up.
“All right then,” Roarke concluded. “I’ll have a look at the revised proposal tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.” He ended transmission. “Though you’ll be working through the evening if you want this to fly.” He waited for Eve to turn, then lifted his wine. “Thanks. You read my mind.”
“I wanted wine because my brain’s fried from spending two big hunks of my day with numbers and reports. You’re drinking it because you’re half celebrating dealing with them.”
“Isn’t it lovely wine covers both? Since you had two hunks of your day free to deal with numbers and reports, I assume you’ve no new case.”
“Caught one, closed it.”
“There’s my clever cop.” He swiveled his chair, patted his knee in invitation. “Let’s hear about it.”
She gave him a stony look, then opted to ease a hip onto the side of his workstation as he often did on hers. “Drunk tripped going down the stairs in his apartment building while peeling an apple with his pocketknife. Broke his neck and stabbed himself in the gut. Pretty much simultaneously according to the ME. Tox came back with a .20 BAC. Rotgut brew on top of it. He took the spill before nine this morning.”
“There’s a sorry end. My own morning held what I believe will be a happy beginning. I met with Rochelle Pickering, offered her the position and a tour of An Didean. She accepted.”