In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

chick?
    "I'm trying to confirm an identification," Peabody went on. "A man, mixed race, middle fifties. Opera buff. He takes the front box seat, stage right, at the Met."
    "Front box, stage right... Sure, I know who you mean. Never misses an opening performance, comes alone."
    "That's him. Can you describe him?"
    "Other than what you've already said, he's big. More like an Arena Ball tackle than an opera fan. Clean-shaven, head and face. Designer black-tie. Always perfectly groomed. Doesn't mingle during intermission. I had a client recognize him once."
    "Recognize him?"
    "Yeah. She pointed him out, mentioned that he was an entrepreneur, which could mean anything."
    "Did she tell you his name?"
    "Probably. Give me a second. Roles. Martin K. Roles. I'm nearly positive."
    "Can I have her name?"
    "Delia." His voice was pained now. "You know how awkward that is for me."
    "Okay, how about this. Could you contact her, casually ask how she knows this man? That might be enough."
    "That I can do. Why don't I relay whatever information I get to you over drinks later? I have a ten o'clock appointment, but that leaves plenty of time. I could meet you at The Palace Hotel, The Royal Bar, say about eight?"
    The Royal Bar, she thought. It was so lush and gorgeous, and they served olives the size of dove's eggs in pretty silver dishes when you sat down for a drink.
    Plus, you never knew which celebrity might drop in for a glass of champagne.
    She could wear her blue dress with the long skirt that slimmed down her hips, or...
    "I'd really like that. I just don't know if I'll be working or not."
    "A cop's life. I miss seeing you."
    "Really?" Pleasure shimmered through her, and had her smiling again. "Me, too."
    "Why don't we do this? I'll leave the early evening open. If you can spare time for a drink any time between six and nine, we'll get together. Otherwise, I'll take a rain check and just pass on what I find out."
    "Great. I'll let you know as soon as I can. Thanks, Charles."
    "Always my pleasure. Later, Beautiful."
    She disengaged, glowing a bit. Beautiful wasn't a term she heard applied to herself often. "That might be a break," she began briskly, and after pocketing her 'link began to hook her bra and button her shirt. "If he can -- "
    "What the hell do you take me for?"
    She blinked. That raw and dangerous edge in McNab's voice was something else rarely heard. And when she focused on his face she saw his eyes were glittering, sharp as shards of green glass. "Huh?"
    "What do you take yourself for?" he tossed out. "You let me put my hands on you one minute, and I'd have been inside you in another. Then you're flirting on the 'link and making a goddamn date with a goddamn LC."
    She nearly said "Huh?" again, because her mind wasn't quite computing the words. But the tone, the basic and nasty meaning of them, rang through loud and clear. "I wasn't flirting, you idiot." Or hardly, she thought, despising the quick, vicious tug of guilt. "I was doing a follow-up, as ordered by my lieutenant. And it's none of your business."
    "It isn't?" He had her by the shoulders, had her shoved back against the wall again. But there was nothing sexual now, nothing playful.
    Nerves jittered up to dance with guilt. "What's the matter with you? Let go or I'll knock you down." Normally, she would have been sure she could do just that. But this wasn't normally and her belly was quivering.
    "The matter with me? You want to know what's the matter with me?" Fury exploded out of him. "I'm sick and tired of having you roll out of my bed and prance on over to roll in Monroe's, that's what's the matter with me."
    "What?" She goggled. "What?"
    "You think I'm going to keep playing backup fuck to some hired dick, you're wrong, Peabody. You are way wrong."
    Her color flashed, then faded. It was nothing like that. Nothing like that, as her relationship with Charles was purely platonic. But she'd be damned if she'd say so now.
    "That's a stupid and a horrible thing to say. Get off me, you son of a bitch."
    She shoved, and was as angry as she was uneasy when she didn't budge him. "Yeah? Well, that's what I'm saying. How would you feel if I'd taken a call from some skirt while my hands were still on you? How the hell would you take that?"
    She didn't know. It had never occurred to her. So she swung back hard to anger. It seemed to be her only defense. "Look, McNab, you can talk to anybody, skirts included, any time you damn well want. And you better crawl back out of