Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,3
only laughed. “You looking fine for a skinny white girl cop.”
“You don’t look half bad for a big black man dive owner.”
“Down and Dirty ain’t no dive. It’s a joint. Yo, Roarke. I want you to meet my beautiful lady. This is Rochelle Pickering.”
Rochelle extended a hand to Eve, then to Roarke. “I’m so happy to meet both of you. I’ve followed your work, Lieutenant, and yours, Roarke. Especially in regard to Dochas and An Didean.”
“She’s a shrink,” Quilla announced, and Crack grinned at her.
“Kid shrink. Watch those steps, shortie, or she could come for you.”
“As if,” Quilla muttered, but melted away into the crowd.
“Wilson.” Rochelle rolled her eyes. “I’m a psychologist, specializing in children. I’ve actually consulted at Dochas.”
“I’m aware,” Roarke told her, which had her blinking at him.
“That’s . . . unexpected.”
“Our head counselor speaks highly of you.”
“She’s a marvel.”
As promised, another tray of drinks arrived.
“I just have to take a moment,” Rochelle continued. “It hardly seems real I’m standing in this amazing space. That I’m meeting both of you. I met Nadine Furst and Jake Kincade, God, Mavis Freestone—who’s exactly, just exactly, as delightful as I’d hoped she would be. And Leonardo, someone whose work I drool over. And I’m drinking champagne.”
“Stick with me,” Crack told her. “The sky’s got no limits.”
Eve had questions, a lot of questions. Such as, she’d never known anyone to call Crack by his given name. What made this woman different? And how did a kid shrink hook up with the streetwise owner of the D&D? And when did Crack go all—what was the word? Smitten, she decided, the word was smitten. When did he go all smitten?
She could see the appeal. The woman was built and beautiful, but . . . just who was she anyway?
Thinking, she made her way to Mira. It took a shrink, she considered, to shrink a shrink. And nobody beat the NYPSD’s top profiler.
Mira rose from the arm of a sofa where she’d perched, kissed Eve’s cheek. As usual, she looked perfect. The dress, the color of the deep red wine being passed around, floated down to her knees and ended in a thin border of some fancy lacework that matched the elbow-length sleeves. She’d swept back her mink-colored hair—now highlighted with subtle copper streaks courtesy of Trina (whom Eve, so far, had managed to avoid).
“Nadine’s really made this place her own. Stylish, yes, but eclectic and comfortable. She looks happy.”
“The gold dude upstairs and the rock star out on the terrace play in.”
“They certainly do. I like him—the Oscar, of course, but Jake. I like him.”
Eve glanced toward the terrace. Through the glass she saw Jake and Mavis, nearly nose to nose as they sang while Jake’s fingers flew over the guitar.
“Yeah, he works. Sort of speaking of that. Do you know anything about this Rochelle Pickering who’s glued to Crack?”
Mira’s eyebrows lifted. “A little. Problem?”
“You tell me.”
“None I’m aware of. I volunteer at Dochas a few times a year. I met her briefly when we were both there some months back. She struck me as very stable and dedicated. A serious woman.”
“Yeah, so what’s she doing with Crack?”
Mira looked over to where Crack and Rochelle swayed to the music on the terrace. “Apparently enjoying herself. It’s a party, Eve. It’s what people do at parties. And here’s Dennis to prove it.”
Dennis Mira walked toward them with a plate of finger food. He wore a black suit with a crisp white shirt and striped tie. His tie was crooked, and his gray hair windblown. His eyes, the softest, sweetest green smiled at Eve.
Her heart went into meltdown.
“You have to try one of these.”
He took something off the plate, held it up to Eve’s lips. She saw what looked like a heap of little chopped up vegetables, all glossy with something and piled on a thick slice of zucchini. Something she’d have avoided putting anywhere near her mouth much less in it at all costs.
But those soft, sweet green eyes had her opening her mouth, letting him feed it to her.
“Delicious, isn’t it?”
She managed an, “Mmm,” as the meltdown completed.
She thought if everyone had a Dennis Mira in their lives, she’d be out of work. No one would have another violent thought.
“Let me get you a plate.”
“No.” She swallowed, decided her veg quota was complete for a month. “I’m good.” And found herself just a little disappointed when Mira straightened his tie.
“Such a happy party, isn’t it?” he continued. “So many interesting and diverse people in