he will—or would have—of course, told you. During my marketing—the open-air market.”
“You saw him?”
“No. I felt him. I know when I’m being followed. He never approached, and I’d have known, so he must have used an amplifier and overheard me talking to Mr. Tilly, the fishmonger. We chatted about our cats, as he has two Persian females. I bought salmon for Galahad. The shadow faded away not long after that. I felt it.
“He butchered that poor animal, one that might have been someone’s pet, because I bought salmon and chatted about cats.”
“He butchered that animal because he’s a sick fuck, and wanted to see what I—or Roarke, depending on who got here first—would do. He stepped into plain sight—just like he did at the murder scene—so I’d see him.
“He laughed,” she added. “I could see by his body language. It was all a big joke.”
When Galahad leaped into her lap, stretched his considerable weight across it, Eve gave him a long, slow stroke. “If the body or the hair have anything to say, Morris and Harvo will find it.”
Summerset took a small device out of his pocket. “Roarke’s at the gate. And so are your crime scene people.”
“Crap. Crap. I should’ve alerted him.” She took another drink. “Oh well.”
“So should have I. I’d say we were both a bit distracted. Sit,” Summerset added before Eve got up. “I’ll bring him in.”
She had to get to work, Eve thought. But this had to come first. Stroking the cat into delirium purrs, she laid her head back, closed her eyes for one precious minute.
She heard the door open.
“And why are sweepers at the gate?” Roarke demanded. “Refusing to tell me more than ‘Ask the lieutenant.’ ”
“She’s in the parlor having some wine. Go join her. I’ll take those.”
She sat straight, eyes open when he came in. Delirious or not, the cat deserted her to greet the next member of the family.
“What the bloody hell, Eve?”
“Cobbe left a dead cat—in a sack with a note—at the gates.”
“A cat? Why would he …” Roarke looked down at the pudgy gray ribbon winding between his legs. “Ah. He tailed Summerset at the market. He must’ve somehow figured we had a cat.”
“Salmon from a fishmonger—a word I don’t understand—and another cat person,” Eve said.
“Amplifier,” Roarke surmised.
“He was a block away—made sure I spotted him. I pursued him into the park, but he had a big lead, and I lost him. I have security sending me the feed, but I’m figuring he zipped back out again, kept going.”
Struggling with fury, Roarke tugged his tie loose as he dropped into the chair beside Eve’s. “He may have tried to get in.”
“Summerset didn’t say anything about the alarms. He would have.”
“Doesn’t mean Cobbe didn’t try a jam. I’ll check. A note, you said.”
“Curiosity killed the cat. You’re next. With bad spelling.”
“You found it when you got home. You must’ve thought …”
He stroked the cat, who’d now chosen his lap.
“My head knew better, but yeah, for a second.”
Summerset came back in. “Wine or whiskey?”
“I’ll have the whiskey.”
“I understand you’ll need to go up, work on this matter, have a meal, but I should tell you both about my discussion with Ivanna.”
“You told your … lady person,” was the only term Eve could come up with.
Arching his brows while he poured, Summerset continued. “Ivanna was, as you should remember, a covert operative for many years. She has many contacts.”
“Whitney took care of that.”
“And does your commander have personal relationships with agents and others who’ve investigated Cobbe?”
Eve frowned at him as Summerset gave Roarke his whiskey. “A guy named Abernathy, Interpol, coming in tomorrow to consult.”
“She mentioned him.” Taking out his PPC, Summerset scrolled. “George Abernathy, initially with Scotland Yard—and, you’ll appreciate, a murder cop. Transferred to Interpol seven years ago.”
“You wrote that down?”
Summerset angled his head. “Would you like to try to decipher my code, Lieutenant? I’ve used variations of it since—”
“Before I was born. Yeah, yeah, fucking yeah.”
“In any case, Ivanna knows of him, knows those who’ve worked with him, just as she knew—as she knows such things—he’s been dogged if unsuccessful in his pursuit of Lorcan Cobbe. He’s forty-eight, married—fourteen years—has two sons. His wife, forty-five, is a botanist of some renown. His sons enjoy cricket and football. Not American football,” he qualified. “Actual football.”
Summerset picked up his whiskey. “If you choose, you can mention her name to him, as an acquaintance. She told me what she knew of various investigations regarding Cobbe. I wrote them into a report.