When she woke, Roarke sat with cat and tablet, with the screen on mute, with stock figures scrolling. He wore one of his richer-than-the-gods suits, this one smoky gray and matched with a shirt that was pale-as-a-pearl gray and a tie that slashed both tones with a deep maroon.
On the left lapel he wore the little petunia pin she’d given him.
Monday, and the traditional workweek, had arrived.
“You’ll have a bright day to chase the dark,” he said without looking up. “A warm one as well.”
“How’s the weather in Big Deal-a-stan?”
Those blue eyes flicked to hers with a smile in them. “Spring’s coming on in Brisbane.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s unnatural. Let me ask you something. How do you keep the times straight? Is there like a global clock running in your head?”
Now the smile touched his lips. “It’s just math.”
She sat up, shoved at her hair. “Not everybody’s good at math. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have everybody running on the same time, the same season? No confusion that way.”
“And that would be New York time and season?”
With a shrug, she got out of bed. “It’d be simpler.”
“You realize that would have large areas of the planet going to work, going to school, opening businesses, and so on through the dark of night.”
Another shrug as she programmed coffee. “Then they wouldn’t be stuck inside during the daylight.” She took a gulp of coffee. “Seems like a good trade-off.”
When she took her coffee into the bathroom, Roarke glanced down at the cat. “It’s not Earth logic, but Eve logic. Strangely, it works for her.”
In the shower, Eve ran through her plan for the morning. She’d hit the Barristers early, see if she could get any more details—and wouldn’t a name be nice?—on the blonde. If she got more, she could push more.
At Central, she needed to check on the status of the cold one Baxter and Trueheart had picked up, and any hot ones that may have come in over the weekend.
She needed to take a closer, deeper look at the files Abernathy had sent her, at the names Roarke had culled out of those—so far. At the finances he’d scoped.
Touch base with Feeney and Detective Willowby on any underground chatter about the emeralds.
The thief, she thought as she stood in the swirling air of the drying tube, had already turned over the take, and unless they were a complete idiot, had the fat fee.
Sitting on a beach somewhere, she imagined, slurping down umbrella drinks, admiring the view.
Before she was done, they’d be admiring the view in a concrete cage.
She stepped out to breakfast waiting under domes and the cat sulking on the floor a few feet away.
“You own resorts with bars and beaches and pools.”
“I do.”
“So why do they put those little umbrellas in drinks at the bars?”
“I suppose to symbolize celebration.”
“Why not little balloons then? You pull out an umbrella when it’s raining. For some reason people like to blow up balloons at a party.”
“I’ll be sure to run that by the bar managers. Tiny balloons, weighted, of course, so they don’t just float away.” He took the domes off omelets. “Your mind’s busy this morning.”
“Whoever took the emeralds and killed Barrister probably has an umbrella in their drink right now. Probably lazing around on some beach down where spring’s coming on.”
“And there’s the connection.”
