they’re even now drinking themselves into a sweaty stupor and weeping bitter tears over their respective career suicides. Be lucky to cop a job sweeping up around a desk now much less sitting behind one. Buggering sods.”

She thought it over. “The cops would’ve been easier on them.”

He glanced back, his grin fierce and cold. “Undoubtedly.”

“I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. You’re a very scary guy.”

“So . . . ” He pulled on a shirt, buttoned it. “And how was your day, darling Eve?”

“Fill you in on the way.”

She told him so that by the time they arrived at the restaurant he was thoroughly briefed.

Peabody, Eve noted, had given an accurate description. The place was packed and noisy and the air smelled amazing. Waitstaff, with white bib aprons over their street clothes, moved at a turtle pace as they carried trays loaded with food to tables or hauled away empty plates.

When waitstaff didn’t have to bust ass for tips, Eve had to figure it all came down to the food or the snob factor. From the looks of the process here, and the simplicity of decor, the food must be superior.

Someone crooned over the speakers in what she assumed was Italian, just as she assumed the almost childlike murals that decorated the walls were of Italian locales.

And she noted the stubby candles on each table. Just like the one Tina Cobb had kept among her mementos.

“I booked in your name.” She had to raise her voice, aim it toward Roarke’s ear to be heard over the din.

“Oh?”

“They were booked solid. Roarke clears a table quicker than Dallas.”

“Ah.”

“Oh. Ah. Blah blah.”

He laughed, pinched her, then turned to the apparently disinterested maître d’. “You’ve a table for two, under Roarke.”

The man was squat, with his ample bulk squeezed into an old-fashioned tuxedo like a soy sausage pumped into a casing. His bored eyes popped wide, and he lurched from his stool station to his feet. When he bowed, Eve expected him to pop out of the tuxedo.

“Yes, yes! Mr. Roarke. Your table is waiting. Best table in the house.” His Italian accent had a definite New York edge. Rome via the Bronx. “Please, come with me. Shoo, shoo.” He waved at and jostled waiters and customers alike to clear a path. “I am Gino. Please to tell me if you wish for anything. Anything. Tonight’s pasta is spaghetti con polpettone, and the special is rollatini di pollo. You will have wine, yes? A complimentary bottle of our Barolo. It’s very fine. Handsome and bold, but not overpowering.”

“Sounds perfect. Thank you very much.”

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all.” He snapped his fingers toward a waiter who’d obviously been put on alert. In short order, the wine was displayed, opened, poured and approved. Menus were offered with a flourish, and the staff retreated to hover and largely ignore diners who hoped to be served sometime in the next decade.

“Do you ever get tired of being fawned over?” Eve asked him.

“Let me think.” Roarke sipped his wine, leaned back. Smiled. “No.”

“Figured.” She glanced at the menu. “What’s that spaghetti polepot stuff he was talking about?”

“Polpettone. Spaghetti and meatballs.”

“Really?” She perked up. “Okay, that sets me up.” She laid the menu aside. “What are you having?”

“I think I’ll try the two-sauce lasagna. You put it in my head, and I can’t get it out. We’ll have some antipasto to start, or we’ll disappoint our hosts.”

“Let’s keep them happy.”

The instant Roarke set down his menu, both the maître d’ and the waiter materialized at the table. She let Roarke order, and drew the ID photo of Tina Cobb out of her bag. “Do you recognize this woman?” she asked Gino.

“I’m sorry?”

“She was in here on a date in July. Do you remember seeing her?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He looked apologetic, then apoplectic as he glanced at Roarke. “We have so many customers.” His brow pearled with sweat; he wrung his hands and stood like a nervous student failing a vital test.

“Just take a look. Maybe you’ll remember her coming in. Young, probably spruced up for a date. About five feet three inches, a hundred and twenty pounds. First-date glow on her.”

“Ah . . . ”

“You could do me a favor,” Eve said before the guy dripped into a nerve puddle at her feet. “You could show that to the waitstaff, see if she rings any bells.”

“I’d be happy to. Honored to, of course. Right away.”

“I like it better when they’re annoyed or pissed off,” Eve decided as