Since he poured her more coffee, she didn’t mention that was cop thinking.
“And that matters. He dosed them first—that’s cowardice, but it’s also making sure. Then he used his hands to kill, and face-to-face. What he took from them—the life people told him his paintings lacked?”
“Transferred to the art,” Roarke concluded.
“Okay, Jesus, I didn’t say it the first time, but don’t blame me if you think like a cop. A good one, too.”
“I see it as a man who knows his cop,” he corrected. “You dream of living paintings. You see the killer as taking lives to create them.”
“I’ll let you pass with that.” She got up to face her closet. “He might even think it works, and add when this type kills, it brings a sense of power, sexual gratification, a thrill they crave to feel again. But whatever he thinks, killing doesn’t make him—who’s another one?—like a Rembrandt or whoever. His work’s still going to be that word.Pedestrian.
“Why does that mean like average anyway? Pedestrians walk. The sidewalks are loaded with pedestrians, and some of them are either way over or way under average.”
“Language is fascinating, isn’t it?”
She turned because he stood in the doorway of her closet. “Did you forget the cat?”
“I didn’t, no. I banished him. Since he refuses to behave in a civilized manner, I put him out of the room and shut the door.”
“Yeah, that’ll teach him.”
She pulled on black trousers, but now with Roarke’s judgment looming, went for a jacket in some sort of bluish green, or greenish blue.
“Lovely color,” he said easily, and plucked out a shirt in the same color blend, but a couple of shades deeper. “To spare you the anxiety.”
“I never had wardrobe anxiety before you.”
He just smiled. “You never had real coffee either.”
“Okay, that’s definitely your point.” Since she apparently had a belt the same color as the shirt, she put it on. But went for simple black boots. “Then there’s the sex,” she added. “It’s pretty good.”
With the jacket in one hand, she tugged on his tie that perfectly melded the pale blue of his shirt with the deep midnight of his suit.
“Maybe I’ll pick out your wardrobe one morning.”
“You’re welcome to try.”
“But that would mean I’d have to get up at zero-Christ-knows-thirty, so you’re probably safe. What solar system did you buy before dawn?”
“Oh, only a minute speck on planet Earth. A rather intriguing castle in County Waterford.”
She stopped as she reached for her badge. “You bought a castle?”
“One being run as a hotel and in dire need of a good infusion of cash for updates and repair. We should have a look next time we’re in Ireland.”
“He bought a castle,” she muttered.
“And since that deal went smoothly, I was able to contact the costume company in Paris. None of the European venues open before noon—their time, darling. I’ll try the others later today. But I can tell you to cross that one off your list.”
“You’re sure?”
“Very. They were cooperative. While they have createdThe Blue Boycostume twice in the last eighteen months, both were for clients living in Paris—one an actual boy of twelve. And for the Vermeer, they’ve done one this year, but the client chose a different fabric than what you’ve got for the jacket, and both different fabrics and colors for the skirt.”
“Why couldn’t they have just told me that? Never mind. Thanks.”
As she hooked on her weapon harness, her communicator signaled.
“Well, fuck and fuck again.” She pulled it out of her pocket. “Dallas.”
