Betrayal in Death

"Covered his ass there."

"A woman on the fifteenth floor, one of those society-type matrons, said she'd spoken to him occasionally in the lobby., and a number of times at the ballet and opera. You hit that one. She said he had season tickets to both, box seat, stage right. He always went solo."

"We'll put some men on that, but he's not going to risk it now, no matter how much he gets into that stuff. He'll know we've blown his cover in this building, talked to neighbors. He'll bypass his usual haunts, at least for the time being."

"I've gone to the opera with Charles a few times. I've been trying to pull it in, get a visual on that box. But it's not clicking. I could ask him. He goes a lot. Could have noticed."

Eve drummed her fingers on the wheel, weighed, considered and ruthlessly cut off a Rapid Cab. "Run it by him, but don't fill him in. We've got too many fingers in this pie already without adding another civilian."

"Speaking of pie," Peabody said, and looked longingly toward a corner glide-cart.

"It's not even noon. You can't be hungry."

"Can, too. I bet you didn't have breakfast. Missing the most essential meal of the day can make you cranky, and logy, and seriously affect your mental and emotional well-being. Studies – "

"Oh Christ!" Eve whipped to the curb, cut off yet another cab, then gave Peabody a steely glare. "You've got sixty seconds."

"Watch me rock."

She was out of the car like a laser flash, whipping out her badge to clear her path toward the scoop of soy fries her stomach was yearning for.

She popped back in the car, seconds to spare, and offered Eve a beaming smile and a second scoop of fries. The smile wobbled only slightly when Eve took the scoop and tucked it between her thighs.

"I didn't think you were hungry."

"Then why'd you buy me a scoop?"

"Just to be nice," Peabody said with some dignity as her hopes for two scoops – after all she wouldn't have felt right about letting them go to waste – were dashed. "I guess you want this, too."

"Yeah, thanks." Eve snagged the tube of Pepsi, plucked out some fries, and shot back into traffic. "Record on my collar." Eve gestured to it with her chin. "Upload onto hard drive and disc. Get me your knock-on-doors report within the hour, and contact Charles Monroe."

Peabody plucked off the recorder, slipped it onto her own jacket. "Yes, sir."

"You know more about girl stuff than I do. Scan the record, the segment in Yost's dressing room deal. Give me a rundown on the enhancements. If it's out of your scope, I'm going to pass it to Mavis. She knows everything."

"Anything above discount counter is out of my scope, enhancement-wise. I might recognize some of the brands though."

"Make another copy of that segment. I'll tag Mavis."

She finished the fries on the way up to her office, pitched the empty container, then closed herself in her office. She had one step to take before she hunkered down to paperwork, and she wanted to take it in private.

As an extra precaution, she used her personal palm-link.

Roarke answered on the second beep. "Hello, Lieutenant. How did it go?"

"It went. I got to deck Jacoby with no official flak coming down on me, so that's something."

"I hope you got it on record. I'd love to watch."

"Har. Actually I did, which is why I had to deck him, and why I'm calling. I got…" She trailed off as she managed to look beyond his face and recognized the room.

"What are you doing in there?" she demanded. "I told you I didn't want any data accessed on your unregistered."

"Who said I was accessing data for you?"

"Listen – "

"I do have other business. I have no intention of passing you data accessed in other than official and legal means."

He'd simply filter it through Feeney first.

"By the way, you've had the return transmission from The New Savoy. Confirmation of Yost's stay there. I've sent the pertinents to you. Now, what else can I do for you?"

She studied him through narrowed and suspicious eyes. "Are you lying?"

"About Yost's stay in London?"

"Don't be a wiseass. About what you're doing in that room right now."

"If I were, I'd simply compound it by lying again. I suppose you'll just have to trust me, won't you?" He smiled at her. "Now as much as I'd love to while away the day chatting with you, darling, I do have work. What do you want?"

"All right." She hissed out a breath. "I got Yost's place on record. Fancy stuff. You'd like most of it. I can run it down, or try to piece by piece, but I figured if you took a look, you might be able to tag it faster. Paintings, sculptures, antiques. You'd know if they're the real thing by looking at a disc?"

"I would, most likely. I can't guarantee, as good copies need to be examined in person."

"I don't peg him as the good copy kind of guy. He's vain about that stuff, like somebody else I know."

"You're insulting your expert consultant, civilian."

"Gotta get the digs in where I can. Anyway, maybe you can narrow down the sources for the artwork and the jazzy furniture."

"Shoot it over. I'll take a look."

"Appreciate it."

"See that you do. Good-bye, Lieutenant."

He disco

Jacoby, Special Agent James.

The date and place of birth, the family data weren't of particular interest. But he noted Jacoby hadn't precisely excelled in his studies. He'd gotten through by staying nearly dead average, with minute peaks and valleys. His social skills were the deepest valleys, his analytical talents the highest peaks.

He'd barely skimmed by the minimal requirements for FBI training, but had excelled in the areas of weapons training, electronics, and tactics.

His sealed profile indicated a difficulty with authority and co-workers, a tendency to ignore or circumvent procedure, and a marginal ability for teamwork.

He'd been cited three times for insubordination and had faced an internal investigation for suspicion of tampering with evidence.

He was single, heterosexual, and appeared to prefer the company and services of licensed companions to a personal relationship with a woman.

He had no criminal record, even as a juvenile, no questionable vices. That made Roarke shake his head. He didn't doubt the FBI file. They were usually every bit as thorough and covert as he could be himself. A man without vices was either a dangerous man or a terminally tedious one.

He bought his clothes off the rack, lived in a small, modest apartment, and had no particular friends.

Small wonder, Roarke mused, and since he'd gone that far, set his computer to work picking through Jacoby's case files.

As it searched, he switched the screen to Karen Stowe's data.

She was the stronger of the team, Roarke thought, and the smarter. Graduated cum laude, American University, where she'd double-majored in criminal justice and electronics. She'd been recruited straight out of college and had completed her training precisely on schedule and in the top five of her class.

The personality profile on her found her driven, focused, intense, with a tendency to overwork and take personal and physical risks. She followed the rules, but could find ways to bend them to her needs. Her weakness was a difficulty with objectivity. She often became too involved in a case, projecting personalities rather than law.

She was, Roarke thought, so much like Eve in this area he was surprised the two of them had yet to come to blows.

Ambition, skill, and tenacity were pushing her steadily up the ranks. And interestingly, he noted, she had requested and campaigned for her current assignment.

On a personal level, she'd had four lovers, all at different times, all male. The first had been in high school. The second her third year of college. She'd spaced them out meticulously, with only one relationship, during her first year in training, lasting more than six months.