Remember When

is very valuable. And he's very particular about it.
    You may be able to have me taken down to the precinct or station house or whatever you call it, but he can fire me. I need this job."
    To placate the woman, Eve hooked her thumbs in her back pockets. "Any of these things a bulldozer, Peabody?"
    "That little one there." Peabody used a jerk of her chin to point. "But it's too small, and it's red.
    Doesn't fit Whittier's description."
    "What about this?" Eve reached out, stopping just an inch from touching as the assistant's breath caught on a thin scream.
    "That's a-what do you call it-cougar? Mountain lion? Bobcat!" she exclaimed. "It's called a bobcat, and don't ask me why. And there's a pumper thingee-fire truck-and, way iced, an off-planet shuttle and an airtram. See, he's got them set up in categories. Farm machines, air transports, ground transports, construction equipment, all-terrains. Look at all the little pedals and controls. Aw, look at the little hay baler. My sister has one on her farm. And there's little farm people to ride it."
    Okay, maybe it wasn't just a guy thing. "That's real sweet. Maybe we should just sit on the floor here and play with all the pretty toys instead of spending our time trying to catch the mean old murdering bastard."
    "Just looking," Peabody said under her breath. "To ascertain that the object in question is not in this location."
    Eve turned to the assistant. "This the lot?"
    "I don't know what you mean."
    "Is this the whole of Mr. Dix's collection?"
    "Oh no. Mr. Dix has one of the most extensive collections in the country. He's been collecting since he was a child. This is just a sampling; he keeps the most valuable at his home. He's even loaned some of the rarer pieces to museums. Several of his pieces were included in a show at the Met two years ago."
    "Where is he?"
    "As I said, he has an outside meeting. He should be back-"
    "Where?"
    Now the assistant sighed. "He's lunching with clients at the Red Room, on Thirty-third."
    "He calls in, you tell him to stay where he is."
    ***
    Dix had already finished his meeting and was enjoying a post-lunch martini. He'd been pleased to see Trevor's name pop on his 'link ident as the meeting had been winding down. And delighted to stretch the tedious business lunch into an entertaining personal meeting.
    Enough that he'd ignored the call from his office. He deserved a break after the morning he'd put in.
    "Couldn't have timed it better," he told Trevor. "I was stuck with a couple of stuffy old-liners with more money than imagination. I spent ninety minutes listening to them whine about taxes and brokerage fees and the state of the market." He sampled a fat, gin-soaked olive.
    Technically, his rehabilitation forbade alcohol. But hell, a martini wasn't Zoner or poppers, for God's sake. And, as Trevor had pointed out, he deserved a small indulgence. "I'm more than ready for a break."
    They sat in the dark-paneled, red-cushioned bar of the restaurant. "Didn't have a chance to talk to you much at the dinner party the other night. You left early."
    "Family business." Trevor shrugged and sipped at his own martini. "Duty call on the old man."
    "Ah. I know how that goes. Did you hear about this mess with Samantha? I wasn't able to talk about anything else all night. Everyone was pestering me for details."
    Trevor schooled his face into a puzzled blank. "Samantha?"
    "My ex. Samantha Gannon."
    "Oh. Sure, sure. Long redhead. You split?"
    "Ancient history. But the cops come to my office, female storm trooper bitch. Samantha's out of town, book tour. You remember that, right? The book she wrote about that old diamond heist and her family?"
    "It's all coming back to me. Fascinating really."
    "It gets more. While she's gone, somebody breaks into her place and kills her friend. Andrea Jacobs. Hot number."
    "Christ, what a world."
    "You said it. A damn shame about Andrea. You had to like her. The cops are all over me." The faint pride in the tone had Trevor smiling into his drink.
    "Over you? Don't tell me the morons thought you had anything to do with it."
    "Apparently. They call it routine, but I was this close to calling a lawyer." He lifted his hand, putting his thumb and forefinger together. "Later, I hear Samantha's cleaning girl got herself killed, too. You can bet I'm going to have to come up with an alibi for that one, too. Idiot cops.
    Jesus, I didn't even know Sam's cleaning girl. Besides, do I look like some psycho? You must've heard about