Chapter Thirteen #3
“You might consider a vest and shirt along with the trousers and jacket. No need for an overcoat, though it’ll be a bit cooler than yesterday. And very businesslike and formidable if you pay a visit to Banner-Wyst, or have the opportunity to take either or both in the box.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said as he lifted the domes.
Pancakes, bacon, berries. Yeah, the man knew her weaknesses, and her needs.
She sat, drowned the pancakes in syrup.
“I thought I’d tag Feeney later,” Roarke said. “See if I can help in some way. I’ve been on two of these crime scenes, so have a vested interest.”
“That’s between you and him. He’ll crack that code, make the connections.
But he’s going to be pissed. He’s going to feel like Banner-Wyst pulled one over on him and the arson inspector.
Which they did,” she added as she ate. “But I figure—and he’ll come around to it—that they had access to technology the NYPSD, the FDNY, didn’t at that time.
“A lot of other factors, too.” She saw Galahad’s nose twitch as she bit into some bacon.
She ignored it. “Even if they’d ruled arson, why would they make the connection to the company?
One tenant among many worked for them. And still, Feeney tried to interview Redman.
Just impossible given his mental state at the time. ”
“You’ll tell Feeney all that.”
“He knows all that, but I’ll tell him if he needs the push. Or you will if you end up in the lab with him and he needs to hear it.”
“I was nowhere near Banner-Wyst’s reach back then, but if I’d wanted a building taken down, I could have done it, and made it look like an accident even under scrutiny. Or certainly in a way that wouldn’t bring the cops to my door.”
“Then that’s what you tell him, if he needs it. I may spend most of today in the field after my consult with Mira, but I’ll check in with EDD on and off. Not enough to step on Feeney’s toes.”
When she decided on a second slice of bacon, Galahad rolled in their direction, as if stretching.
“Any closer, mate,” Roarke warned him, “and out the door you go.”
Smiling to herself, she finished breakfast. Then braced herself for the closet. Though she’d wear black, there were half a million choices.
She grabbed black pants at random, decided to build everything from that. As she struggled to do so, she thought of Mira, how the woman used color, managed to coordinate everything, clothes, shoes, jewelry.
“I don’t even wear jewelry.” If she didn’t count her wedding ring and the fat diamond she wore on a chain under her shirt.
She liked the black leather vest she didn’t think she’d seen before, even if it had what she considered useless little slant pockets. A black shirt, black jacket with black leather buttons, black boots, black belt.
As she dressed, she figured if she’d gone off a few shades on any particular piece, Roarke would let her know.
Whether she wanted to hear it or not.
But he simply nodded as she came out, jacket in hand.
“Respectful for the memorial, then businesslike and formidable for the rest.”
She strapped on her weapon over the vest. Began to fill her pockets.
She supposed he’d call his million-dollar suit charcoal, and the shirt something like ash. The tie? Maybe charcoal and ash along with a touch of deep blue, all in tiny diamond shapes.
He’d added the petunia pin she’d given him to his lapel.
“You’ve got that old button in your pocket, don’t you?”
“Well, of course.” He slid it out to prove it.
“How come I don’t have a sloppy, sentimental good luck thing?”
“What would it be?”
“I don’t know. You don’t ever lose anything. Wait. I know. Give me one of those leather ties you use for your hair in serious work mode.”
“Really? I’ve just the one on me right now.”
“You’ve got more. You have more of everything.”
Enjoying her, he rose, and taking it out of his pocket, gave it to her. “You’ll note I didn’t lose it.”
“I wouldn’t have lost the button if you’d given it back to me when you found it.”
“The remarkably ill-fitting and unattractive suit it fell off of is long gone.”
“You’d think a sloppy, sentimental Irishman would keep what I was wearing the first time he saw me.”
“I’m not sloppy and sentimental enough for that poor excuse of a suit.”
She stuck the tie in her pocket. “I’ll probably lose this, then you’ll have to give me another one.”
“Christ, I adore you.” He pulled her in, kissed her. “Take care of my cop.”
“Don’t I always?”
“No.”
She laughed, kissed him. “Take care of my sloppy, sentimental Irishman. And oh, have fun getting the syrup off the cat.”
He turned, and she headed out as she heard him say, “Well, bugger it! That’s a right bloody mess you’ve made.”
And, she thought, the richest man in the universe would, in his gorgeous suit, clean it up, and the cat with it.
She stuck a hand in her pocket as she jogged down the stairs, felt the leather tie.
Yeah, she’d probably lose it, maybe even before end of shift. But she’d try not to.
She got in the car, lighter than she’d have believed she’d feel after the nightmare. Since the sun shined, she took the sunshades out of her pocket. After all, he’d put them on her dresser so she wouldn’t forget.
She slipped them on, and started the journey to the morgue.