Remember When

let him pick the menu. She even manned the AutoChef herself for the lobster salad he had a yen for. She decided the sex had burned the alcohol out of her system and allowed herself a second glass of wine as they ate.
    "Okay, woman who owns the residence-private town house, Upper East-was out of town for two weeks. A female friend was house-sitting. Owner comes home this afternoon, late this afternoon, sees her living area trashed. Her statement is that the doors were locked, the security alarm set.
    She goes upstairs. There's a strong odor, which pisses her off as much as the mess downstairs.
    She walks into her bedroom, finds her house sitter dead. Dead for five days, according to my on-site. Throat slit. No other visible injuries. Indications are the attack came from behind. The security camera at the entrance was deactivated, disks removed. There's no sign of forced entry.
    The victim was wearing a lot of baubles. Possible-even probable-they're fake, but her wrist unit was a good brand."
    "Sexual assault?"
    "My prelim on-scene indicates no. I'll wait and see what the ME says on that one. She was still dressed in club clothes. When the owner settles down some, we'll have her check to see if anything was taken. I saw what appeared to be antiques, original artworks, upscale electronics.
    My initial search of the crime scene turned up some jewelry in a drawer. It looked like good stuff, but I'm no judge. Possibly, it was a standard B and E that went wrong, but-"
    "And here you are a judge."
    "It didn't look like it. It doesn't feel like it. It looks like, and feels like, somebody breaking in looking for something, or someone specific. It looked like this woman came home before he was finished."
    "Bad timing, all around."
    "Absolutely. It was known that the owner was out of town. Could be he wasn't expecting anyone to be there. She walked into the bedroom, he stepped in behind her, slit her throat from ear to ear, and either continued his search or left."
    "No, not your average B-and-E man. They want in and out quickly, no mess, no fuss. No weapons. You get an extra boot on your time if you get tagged carrying."
    "You'd know."
    He merely smiled. "As I was never tagged, or booted, I find that dry sarcasm inappropriate. He didn't burgle in the traditional sense," Roarke continued, "so traditional burglary wasn't the purpose."
    "My thought. So we run Gannon and Jacobs-owner, victim-and see if anything pops that would make someone want them dead."
    "Ex-spouses, lovers?"
    "According to the witness, Jacobs liked to play. No specific playmate. Gannon has a recent ex.
    Claims they parted ways amicably, and no hard feelings, about a month back. But people can be really stupid about that sort of thing, hold grudges, or torches."
    "You'd know."
    She went blank for a moment, then had an image of Roarke pounding the crap out of one of her colleagues and a former one-nighter. "Webster wasn't an ex. You have to be naked with somebody for more than two hours for them to qualify as an ex. It's a law."
    "I stand corrected."
    "You can stop looking smug anytime. I'll run the ex. Chad Dix. Upper East addy." It wasn't pizza, she mused, but the lobster salad wasn't bad. She scooped up more as she flipped through her mental files. "The victim was a travel agent, worked for Work or Play Travel, midtown. Know them?"
    "No. Don't use them."
    "Some people travel for reasons other than work or play. Smuggling, for instance."
    He lifted his glass, contemplated his wine. "To some points of view, smuggling might fall into the categories of either work or play."
    "It'll get boring to keep saying 'you should know.' We'll look into the travel agency, but I don't think Jacobs was a target. It was Gannon's house, Gannon's things. She was out of town, known to be out of town."
    "Work or play?"
    "Work. She was on some sort of a tour deal for a book. It's the book that interests me."
    "Really? Now you have my attention."
    "Look, I read." She scooped up more lobster. "Stuff."
    "Case files don't count." He gestured with his fork. "But go on. What interests you about this book?"
    "Do too count," she retorted. "It's some sort of family story, but the big hook is a diamond heist, early twenty-first, here in New York. It-"
    "The Forty-seventh Street job. Hot Rocks. I know this book."
    "You read it?"
    "As a matter of fact. The property was auctioned last year. Starline acquired."
    "Starline? Publishing? That's yours."
    "It is. I caught the pitch from the acquiring