In Death 31 - Indulgence in Death

companionship after the failure of his marriage. Different types, different dynamics. He had to assume both personas long enough to position his quarry in the kill zone.”
    Mira sipped more coffee, shifted so her pretty necklace caught some of the light through Eve’s narrow window. “He’s certainly outlined and researched the next victim type, location, method. The time and timing. He most likely lives alone, or with someone he dominates. Both killings took place late in the evening and took considerable time to set up. It would be difficult to do that if he has a spouse or cohab unless he isn’t questioned in the home, or manufactured careful reasons to be absent. He made no attempt to disguise what he’d done by the pretense of robbery. So I’ll add confident, and arrogant.”
    Mira checked the time. “I need to go.”
    “Thanks for the time.”
    Mira rose, handed Eve the empty cup, then, smiling, laid her palm on Eve’s cheek. “Get a little sleep, Eve.”
    “Yeah, I’ll work it in.”
    But when Mira left, she turned to the work. And she smiled grimly when she scanned Peabody’s update. She and McNab had made the shoe.
    “Emilio Stefani, leather loafer, high shine, sterling silver buckle detail. Retails for . . . you have got to be kidding me. Three thousand for a pair of knock-around shoes?”
    It simply offended her sensibilities. But she moved on.
    “This many outlets carry this bastard? What is wrong with people? Still, it’s a good lead.”
    She read further, nodded again. McNab might dress like a psychotic clown, but he had a cop’s brain. He’d done some comp magic and estimated the shoe size as between ten and ten and a half, leaning toward the ten.
    Now it was a damn good lead.
    She ordered background checks on both Dudley and Moriarity, ordered the computer to analyze the shoe vendors and produce the three most exclusive. With that running, she arranged for a couple of uniforms to bring Mitchell Sykes and his cohab in for questioning.
    Her incoming signaled, so she read Morris’s preliminary report. No surprises. She considered snarling at the lab for more information on the bayonet but decided she was too fuzzy in the brain to deal with the new, improved Dickhead.
    It seemed the second wind—or the omelets—had worn off.
    Thirty minutes down, she told herself, and locking her door, stretched out on the floor. “Computer, set wake-up alarm for thirty minutes.”
    Acknowledged .
    It was the last thing she heard.

    M inutes later, Roarke bypassed her locks and stepped in to find her. Facedown on the floor, he thought, sprawled out like the dead she stood for.
    He thought surely there was a better place for a nap, but reengaged the locks before stretching out beside her.
    He fell into sleep in seconds.
    Dallas, your thirty-minute rest period has ended.
    “Crap. I’m up.” She opened one eye, then jerked awake. “Jesus, Roarke.”
    “You’re entitled to a larger office, you know. One big enough to accommodate a couch. And I much preferred what we did together on the floor yesterday to this.”
    She rubbed her gritty eyes. “Didn’t I lock that door?”
    He only smiled. “I need to go into my own office for a few hours, and wanted to kiss my wife good-bye. Why didn’t you go up to the crib for your thirty-minute rest period?”
    “It’s disgusting. You don’t know who’s going to walk in, or who was in there last, or what they were doing with whoever else might’ve been in there.”
    “That’s a point.” He sat up so they were face-to-face. “But I’m not sure this is better.” As Mira had, he laid a hand on her cheek. “You need more sleep.”
    “Skillet, pan.”
    “What?”
    “You know, the skillet says the pan’s the same deal.”
    He thought a moment. “I believe that’s the pot calling the kettle black.”
    “Whatever, kitchen stuff can’t talk anyway. McNab and Peabody made the shoe.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    “Three large for something you wear so your foot’s not walking on the ground.”
    He decided against telling her how much he’d paid for the boots she was currently wearing. “You should be pleased. They’ll be easier to track than something you could pick up for a hundred at Discount Shoes.”
    “True. I’ve got to screw with the little bastard—the drug pusher—then I’m going to go have a chat with The Third and The Fourth.”
    “You have fun.” He leaned in to kiss her. I’ll see you at home when we get there.” He stood,