In Death 14 - Reunion in Death

murder.
    The two wives might have been totally different types, but they had one patch of common ground. An obvious affection for Walter C. Pettibone.
    As far as the data, the evidence, and the probability scans indicated, Julianna had picked Pettibone out of a hat. And that canny capriciousness meant the next target could be one of millions.
    She left the computer sorting names when she went to bed, and was up at six a.m. going over it all again.
    "You'll wear yourself out again, Lieutenant."
    She looked over to where Roarke stood, already dressed, already perfect. She'd yet to so much as brush her teeth.
    "No, I'm fine. I got a solid five. I'm working with sheep." She gestured toward the wall screen. "You got any clue how many names have something to do with stupid sheep?"
    "Other than the variations that include the syllable sheep itself? Lamb, Shepherd, Ram, Mutton, Ewes-"
    "Shut up."
    He grinned and came into her office, offered her one of the mugs of coffee he held. "And, of course, countless variations on those and others."
    "And it doesn't have to be a name. Could be a job, the way he looks. Christ, I got this angle from a jonesing funky junkie named Loopy."
    "Still there's a logic to it. The bone man, the sheep man. I'd say you're on the right track."
    "Big fricking track. Even cutting it to multiple married males from fifty to seventy-five, her usual target area, I've got tens of thousands just in the metropolitan area. I can cut that back again by financial worth, but it's still too many to cover."
    "What's your plan?"
    "Cutting it down again by following the theory that Pettibone was considered eight to ten years back. If her next mark was in the running back then, I look at men who were successfully established in the city ten years ago. Then I hope to hell Julianna's not in a hurry."
    She ordered the computer to start a new listing using that criteria, then took a casual sip of coffee. "What've you got going today?"
    He took a disc out of his pocket. "My schedule for the next five days. You'll be updated on any changes to it."
    "Thanks." She took it, then looked up at him. "Thanks," she repeated. "Roarke, I shouldn't have taken it all out on you last night. But you're so damn handy."
    "It's all right. The next time you get drunk and surly, I'll just slap you around."
    "I guess that's fair." She eased back when he leaned in. "I haven't cleaned up yet. I was going to catch a quick workout while the lists are compiling."
    "A workout sounds perfect."
    "You're already dressed," she said when he took her hand and started for the elevator.
    "The brilliant thing about clothes is you can put them on and take them off as often as you like." He turned, tugged up her sweatshirt when they were in the elevator. "See?"
    "We've got house guests wandering all over the place," she reminded him.
    "So, we'll lock the door." His clever hands trailed up and closed over her breasts. "And have a quick, private workout."
    "Good thinking."
    ...
    While Eve was finishing off a very satisfying exercise program with a swim, Henry Mouton strode across the polished marble floors of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch, attorneys at law.
    He was sixty-two, film-star handsome athletically trim, and one of the premier corporate attorneys on the East Coast.
    He walked with purpose. Lived with purpose. In the thirty-odd years he'd been a lawyer, he had arrived at his office at precisely seven o'clock, five days a week. That routine hadn't altered when he'd established his own firm twenty-three years ago.
    Self-made men, Henry liked to say, were works in progress. And work was the key word.
    He loved his, loved climbing the slippery, tangled vine of the law.
    He approached his life the same way he approached his work. With dedication and routine. He maintained his health, his body, and his mind with habitual exercise, a good diet, and exposure to culture. He vacationed twice yearly, for precisely two weeks in each locale. In February, he selected a warm weather clime, and in August earmarked an interesting location where museums, galleries, and theater would be offered in abundance.
    The third weekend of every month, he stayed at his shore home in the Hamptons.
    Some said he was rigid, including his two ex-wives, but Henry thought of himself as organized. As his current wife was nearly as detail- and routine-oriented as he was himself, Henry's world was in perfect order.
    The main floor of Mouton, Carlston, and Fitch was as grand as a cathedral, and