Calculated in Death

Roarke got out, offered Eve his hand. Another crest of sound, and a stunning galaxy of lights greeted her. Faces and flashes and the bright red river of carpet.
    Even as Eve’s eyes tracked, searched out her man, the chants of her name, of Roarke’s began.
    She noted the route followed Peabody’s intel, the river streaming straight, then spilling into an ocean of red. People in tuxedos and sharp suits, sparkling dresses, glittering jewels glided over it. Smiling, laughing, posing.
    Clinton Frye wasn’t among them.
    Yet.
    “Lieutenant Dallas is another sensation,” Roarke commented.
    “It’s weird. And a little creepy. On the move,” she added as they started up the red carpet.
    It got weirder with the shouted questions, the mics stuck in her face, the effervescent enthusiasm of the media, and the half-wild energy of the people crowded against the barricades.
    For what? she wondered. She walked these streets nearly every day, she’d probably—given the odds—busted at least one of the people out there cheering, calling, waving.
    All this frantic excitement just to catch a glimpse of a cop? It made her embarrassed for New York.
    When she whispered as much to Roarke, he laughed. Just laughed, then completed the embarrassment by kissing her.
    And the crowd went wild.
    “Cut that out!”
    “I might resist,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips, “if you’d stop delighting me.”
    “I’ll work on it.”
    It was just part of the op, she told herself as reporters began to swarm. Just part of the trap.
    Great night, looking forward to it, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, the dress is Leonardo. Whose shoes are they? They’re my shoes.
    For some reason this brought on a trilling laugh from some slicked-up fashion reporter.
    She walked what she now thought of as a gauntlet, talking, smiling, searching, scanning, listening to reports in her ear—no sign yet—keeping both Mavis and Peabody on her radar. Then Nadine, in a liquid skin of silver, and Mira in deep and flowing coral. Dennis Mira, looking bemused and befuddled. God, he was so cute. The commander looking commanding beside his regal, slightly scary wife.
    She heard her name called, glanced, and watched Marlo, her hand linked with Matthew’s, hurry toward her.
    “Dallas! You’re here. I kept obsessing you’d be chasing down some murderer instead of making it. It’s so good to see you both. We’re really looking forward to tonight, and tomorrow.”
    “So are we.” Roarke held out a hand. “It’s good to see you, Matthew.”
    “It’s great to be back in New York.”
    As requests pounded out for photo ops, Marlo smoothly shifted position, slipped an arm around Eve’s waist.
    Too close, Eve thought, then ordered herself to relax. With the sweep of blonde hair no one would mistake Marlo for her.
    “We need to move inside,” Marlo murmured in her ear even as she struck another pose. “Even with the heaters, it’s cold out here, and they’ll keep us as long as we’ll stay.”
    “Sounds good. And right on schedule.” Eve caught Peabody’s eye, signaled.
    Of course that generated more greetings, more photos, a round of you-look-amazings.
    “You’re getting cold,” Roarke commented, and in his easy, unstoppable way, guided them all into the theater.
    The carpet continued. The crowd was smaller here, more exclusive, and the noise more subdued.
    And there, she thought, was Sterling Alexander, looking smug as he sipped a cocktail and cornered Mason Roundtree, the director.
    She caught glimpses of Biden, of Young-Sachs. Continued to track.
    Alva Moonie, her housekeeper beside her, stood off from the main group and held both of Whitestone’s hands. Sympathy covered her face.
    Across the lobby, Candida, in all but transparent white, held court with a gaggle of reporters.
    “I wondered if they’d come,” Eve murmured to Roarke. “Whitestone, Newton and his fiancée.”
    Roarke followed her direction. “It weighs on them. You can see it.”
    “Why come here, with all this hype and hoopla?”
    “Some need people, distractions, noise in grief. Others need solitude and silence. But both can offer solace,” he said as he watched Alva put her arms around Whitestone.
    “I guess that’s true.”
    Eve made her men, scattered throughout. Baxter, looking as though he’d been born in a tuxedo, chatted carelessly from all appearances with Carmichael who shined up very well.
    But she saw the cop in their eyes, the alert in the set of their bodies.
    She