Remember When

ass. An engineer, an office manager and two VPs will be seeking other employment. An overworked admin just copped herself a corner office and a new title-along with a nice salary boost-and a young man out of R and D is out celebrating his promotion to project head about now."
    "Wow, you've been pretty busy out there, changing lives."
    He slicked back that wonderful and wet mane of black hair. "A little padding of the expense account, that's a time-honored tradition, corporately speaking. I don't mind it. But you don't want to get greedy, and sloppy, and fucking arrogant about it. Or next you know, you're out on your ear and wondering how the hell you're going to afford that condo on Maui and the side dish who likes trinkets that come in Tiffany's little blue boxes."
    "Hold it." She stepped back as he walked out of the shower. "Embezzlement? Are you talking embezzlement?"
    "That would be Chicago. Baltimore was just ineptitude, which is, somehow, even more annoying."
    "Did you have them charged? Chicago?"
    He flipped a towel, began to dry off. "I handled it. My way, Lieutenant," he said before she could speak. "I don't call the cops at every bump in the road."
    "I keep hearing that lately. Embezzlement's a crime, Roarke."
    "Is it now? Well, fancy that." With the towel hooked over his hips, he brushed by her and went to his closet. "They'll pay, you can be sure of that. I imagine they're even now drinking themselves into a sweaty stupor and weeping bitter tears over their respective career suicides. Be lucky to cop a job sweeping up around a desk now much less sitting behind one. Buggering sods."
    She thought it over. "The cops would've been easier on them."
    He glanced back, his grin fierce and cold. "Undoubtedly."
    "I've said it before, I'll say it again. You're a very scary guy."
    "So..." He pulled on a shirt, buttoned it. "And how was your day, darling Eve?"
    "Fill you in on the way."
    She told him so that by the time they arrived at the restaurant he was thoroughly briefed.
    Peabody, Eve noted, had given an accurate description. The place was packed, and noisy, and the air smelled amazing. Waitstaff, with white bib aprons over their street clothes, moved at a turtle pace as they carried trays loaded with food to tables or hauled away empty plates.
    When waitstaff didn't have to bust ass for tips, Eve had to figure it all came down to the food or the snob factor. From the looks of the process here, and the simplicity of decor, the food must be superior.
    Someone crooned over the speakers in what she assumed was Italian, just as she assumed the almost childlike murals that decorated the walls were of Italian locales.
    And she noted the stubby candles on each table. Just like the one Tina Cobb had kept among her mementos.
    "I booked in your name." She had to raise her voice, aim it toward Roarke's ear to be heard over the din.
    "Oh?"
    "They were booked solid. Roarke clears a table quicker than Dallas."
    "Ah."
    "Oh. Ah. Blah Blah."
    He laughed, pinched her, then turned to the apparently disinterested maOtre d'. "You've a table for two, under Roarke."
    The man was squat, with his ample bulk squeezed into an old-fashioned tuxedo like a soy sausage pumped into a casing. His bored eyes popped wide, and he lurched from his stool station to his feet. When he bowed, Eve expected him to pop out of the tuxedo.
    "Yes, yes! Mr. Roarke. Your table is waiting. Best table in the house." His Italian accent had a definite New York edge. Rome via the Bronx. "Please, come with me. Shoo, shoo." He waved at and jostled waiters and customers alike to clear a path. "I am Gino. Please to tell me if you wish for anything. Anything. Tonight's pasta is spaghetti con polpettone, and the special is rollatini di pollo. You will have wine, yes? A complimentary bottle of our Barolo. It's very fine. Handsome and bold, but not overpowering."
    "Sounds perfect. Thank you very much."
    "It's nothing. Nothing at all." He snapped his fingers toward a waiter who'd obviously been put on alert. In short order, the wine was displayed, opened, poured and approved. Menus were offered with a flourish, and the staff retreated to hover and largely ignore diners who hoped to be served sometime in the next decade.
    "Do you ever get tired of being fawned over?" Eve asked him..
    "Let me think." Roarke sipped his wine, leaned back. Smiled. "No."
    "Figured." She glanced at the menu. "What's that spaghetti polepot stuff he was talking about.
    "Polpettone. Spaghetti and