“Look, I just wondered about it, that’s all. Peabody started this whole thing about could she take an hour’s personal to get polished up because she and McNab had this date-night deal going so they wouldn’t lose the juice.”

“That’s very sweet. Are you wondering if we’re low on juice?” He took her hand, drew it to his lips.

“No.” Why such a deliberately romantic gesture caused tingles straight up her arm, she didn’t know. “I just wondered if that’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to do when you’re married awhile. And you spend a lot of evenings with work.”

“We like work, don’t we?”

“Yeah, we do.” She moved in, grabbed his hair with her fists and pulled his mouth to hers. She put some heat behind it-it was the least she could do-and felt the tingle up her arm arrow to her belly. She ended the kiss with a quick, light nip.

“Plenty of juice in reserve,” she decided. She laid her hands on his cheeks a moment, then stepped back. “And I always hated dating.”

Kicked back at her desk, sharing a bottle of wine and the comforting goodness of homemade chicken pot pie struck her as just about perfect. Summerset might be a pain in her ass but the man could cook.

As they ate, she rewound the facts and impressions in her head, and played them out for Roarke.

“So on one hand, you’ve got a guy who appears to dick around on his wife of nearly sixteen years, likes the kink, and when things go wrong, the kink partner runs. But that’s bogus.”

“Because he was drugged.”

“That’s the big one, but it’s not all. Accident, even if the killer was hired sex, there would have been some attempt to revive. The very least, you take the rope away. Then there’s the pajamas.”

“There is?”

“Greta-who strikes me as spookily efficient as the Nazi downstairs, states the vic wore pj’s. And had ten pairs. Count is nine. Where’s pair number ten? I have to figure the killer took them, either for a trophy, or to dispose of them away from the scene. If he’s expecting company, he either has them on so the company can undress him, or he leaves them folded in the drawer where the other nine pairs were. If he’s wearing them, and it was an accident, why grab them up when you run? Doesn’t follow.”

“Maybe the killer worried there was DNA or other forensic evidence on them.”

“The sweepers didn’t find anything anywhere else in the room. Doesn’t follow. Killer was sealed. Had to be sealed. The only prints in the room were Anders’s, the wife’s, and the housekeeper’s. The few stray hairs in the bed were all his.”

“Putting that aside for a moment, and given it’s long odds considering what I know of Anders, there are some who get off on the idea of rape. Some who might enjoy the idea of being taken, forced, while they’re unconscious. The ultimate submissive.”

“People are sick in all kinds of ways,” Eve commented. “But even if he was sick that way, would anyone in their right mind go into that kind of liaison without complete trust in the partner? And with that kind of trust, would the partner leave him choking to death? He was still alive when the security booted back up. I don’t see it. But on the other hand…”

She paused to scoop up more pot pie. “The other hand is premeditated murder. Someone who’s been in the house, or had access to the setup. The killer knew where Anders slept, where the security room was, knew how to override the security. I timed it, and there wasn’t room for hunting around.”

She walked Roarke through, step by step, as she had done. “It’s cold, vindictive, ugly-you don’t just want him dead, you want to mess him up after he’s dead. But something’s missing in that. Where’s the springboard? You’re that vindictive, there has to be anger or hate. If you’re controlled enough to strap those down, why aren’t you controlled enough to handle the details? The hefty dose of barbs-it’s off. You want to humiliate him, but you don’t have anything to say to him. You’re alone in the house-a light tranq would be enough, give you enough to wrap him up. Don’t you want him to hear why-don’t you have something to say, don’t you want him to know?

“So that’s the third hand. The sham. The killer didn’t care if the stage fell apart after the curtain. The killer had nothing to say to Anders. But that’s missing something. Why put on the show if you can’t take the bows with a captive audience? What do you gain? What’s the damn point?”

“He’s dead. Whatever the window dressing, mission accomplished.”

“Yeah.” She nodded, gesturing with her fork. “And what have I got? A devoted nephew, a loving wife, steadfast friends, the efficient housekeeper. Somebody’s hiding something. That somebody knew he’d be alone in the house that night. Had to be sure of it. So…I dig deeper into financials-see if Anders was paying for it, or if I can find he paid for a subscription to Bondage Weekly. See if the wife, the nephew had any money troubles. Gambling, illegals. Sports betting’s big,” she considered. “Maybe Ben got in too deep.”

“It won’t be Ben.”

“Doesn’t feel like Ben. Doesn’t mean it won’t be connected to Ben.” Eyeing him, she polished off her wine. “You want to sign on, expert consultant, civilian, and poke into some bank accounts?”

“I live for these moments.”

“Take the wife. I’ll take Ben. Then maybe we’ll split up Anders.”

“Assignments, always exciting. I’ve one for you. Tend to the dishes. I’ll get the coffee.”

It was hard to argue, especially since he’d come up with the pot pie idea. She carted the dishes, stacked them in the little washer in her office kitchen, then turned and found him studying her.

“What?”

“Awfully domestic, isn’t it? A moment. Dish duty, coffee fetching, the two of us in the kitchen after a meal.”

Eve glanced down to where Galahad was sniffing his bowl, obviously hoping for seconds. “That would be the three of us.”

“Ah yes. Our little family.” Reaching out, he brushed the tips of her choppy hair. “A nice settled moment between the business of the day and the puzzle of the evening. It occurs to me these are moments I live for.”

Her heart simply melted. “I always wonder why they’re enough for you.”

He laid his lips on hers, soft, sweet. “You shouldn’t.”

The cat bumped between them, shot a leg up in the air, and began to wash his butt. With a laugh, Roarke shook his head. “And so the moment ends. Your coffee, Lieutenant,” he said and handed her a mug.

She sat at her desk, and waited to settle as Roarke walked into his adjoining office. It remained an amazement, her personal miracle, that he loved her. Loved her because of or in spite of everything. In all the world, with all its misery, after all the pain, they’d found each other. He was right, of course. It was more than enough.

“Computer,” she began, and ordered the next layer in the search of Anders’s financials.

The rich were complicated, Eve thought, with all their many pockets inside which they tucked their booty. Stocks, bonds, trusts, tax-deferred, tax-free, liquid money, futures. Long-term, short-term. Subsets, and arms and divisions.

But under it all, somehow, someway, even the rich paid bills and bought toilet paper.

She scraped and she dug, searching for something to tie her victim to a lover or to licensed companions, running a secondary search for medications and/or sexual aids.

“Eve.”

“What?” She looked away from the data crowding her wall screen. “I’ve barely started. You can’t have found something already. It’s not natural.”

“I have, and I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“What?”

“In Ava Anders’s financials. There are regular bimonthly payments, going back for eighteen months.”

“For what?” Her eyes narrowed. “To who?”

“To Charles Monroe.”

“Charles.” As it slapped at her out of left field, Eve dragged a hand through her hair. “Son of a bitch.” This was the trouble, she thought, this was the damn problem with making friends. It came back and bit you in the ass. “She’s getting her pipes snaked twice a month by a licensed companion?”