“I’m figuring until I get to Central and start on the paperwork. I already fed the cat. Don’t let him tell you otherwise.”
She dressed, a tall—and yes, streamlined—woman with a choppy cap of brown hair that held shades as varied as the line of brown pants in her closet.
She had long, whiskey-colored eyes in a face of sharp angles. Those eyes scanned the selection of belts before she grabbed one.
She stepped out, set the jacket aside as she walked over to pick up her weapon harness. As she hooked it on, Roarke poured her another cup of coffee.
He sat, PPC in hand, while the wall screen scrolled the early stock reports, and the cat sprawled on his belly on the floor. Hoping, Eve knew, the humans would be distracted enough, at some point, to let him at whatever was under the domes on the table.
“I thought to meet you at Central.”
“Why? When?”
“Eve.” He shook his head as he removed the dome on—yay!—pancakes. “It’s the official move-in. The Great House Project is finished. We’re to have dinner there tonight.”
“I didn’t forget. It’s just…” She waved a hand at the back of her head. “Compartmentalized. Anyway, they all moved in over the weekend.”
“A project of its own, no doubt. Now they’re fairly settled, and dinner with us tonight makes it official for them.”
“Everything got there, right? You said the stuff we picked out for them got there, so we don’t have to take anything else.”
“We’re taking champagne.”
“Okay, good. That’s good. We said we’d give them a hand with it over the weekend, but they nixed that.”
“They wanted, in their way, to present the house to us. Obviously we’ve seen it in progress.”
“But this is different. I get it.”
She started to walk over to pancakes, and her communicator signaled.
She picked it up. “Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 17 King Street. Possible homicide, female victim. Officers on scene.
“Copy that. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”
She shoved the communicator in her pocket.
“Now you’re stuck, aren’t you then? Between regret at a death, the pancakes you won’t eat, and the relief at the further, and necessary, procrastination of your paperwork.”
Though she couldn’t drown it in butter and syrup, she plucked up a pancake, folded it, ate it. “One less regret.” She grabbed her jacket, swung it on, then loaded pockets with her ’link, her badge, and everything else.
“And positive? I’m already up and dressed. I’ll see you at Central later, unless.”
“Understood.” He gave the cat a hard, warning look, then stood, crossed to Eve. “Take care of my well-dressed cop.”
“That’s the plan.” She stroked her knuckles over Roarke’s cheek.
“He’s making his move,” she said.
At their unified stares, Galahad stopped his belly crawl toward the table and rolled over as if to study the ceiling.
She gave Roarke another quick kiss, and as she headed out, heard him speak to the cat.
“And don’t think because she’s called to duty you’ll get her share.”
Chapter Two
