The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [173]
“Pepper Franklin?”
“Yeah, she strikes me as straight up, but the guy . . .” She trailed off, narrowing her eyes as Roarke scooped up a spoonful of parfait. “You know her.”
“Mmm. This is very nice, refreshing.”
“You banged her.”
Though his lips twitched he managed to maintain a sober expression as he sampled more parfait. “That’s a very unattractive term. I prefer saying we had a brief and mature relationship, which included the occasional banging.”
“I should’ve known. She’s just your type.”
“Is she?” he queried.
“Gorgeous, elegant, sophisticated sex.”
“Darling.” He sat back to sip his coffee. “How conceited of you. Not that you aren’t all those things, and more.”
“I’m not talking about me.” She scowled at him a moment, then went to work on the parfait. “I should have figured her for one of your formers the minute I saw the portrait.”
“Ah, she still has that, does she? The Titania portrait?”
She shoveled parfait in her mouth. “You’re going to tell me you gave it to her.”
“As what you might call a parting gift.”
“What, like on a game show?”
His laughter was rich and full of fun. “If you like. How is she? I haven’t seen her in, Christ, seven or eight years, I suppose.”
“She’s dandy.” Watching him, she licked her spoon. “But her taste in men has seriously declined.”
“Why, thank you.” He grabbed her hand, kissed it. “While mine, in women, has seriously improved.”
She wouldn’t have minded working up a good head of jealousy steam, to see what it felt like. But it just didn’t work for her. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. She’s hooked up with a guy named Leo Fortney. Operator. He’s got operator all over him, and a couple of pops, including sexual assault.”
“Doesn’t sound like Pepper’s usual fare. Is he your prime suspect?”
“He’s number one right now, though he was home in bed during the time involved. She’s corroborating, but since she was sleeping, I’m not putting much weight there. Plus, he lied, said they went nighty-night together, and she said different before she realized she’d be blowing it for him. Still, she struck me as a straight shooter.” She paused, waited.
“She is, yes.”
“So whether or not he was there, she thinks he was. We’ll see where it goes. Meanwhile, I’ve got informals set up tomorrow with Carmichael Smith to start.”
“Pop music king. Irritatingly saccharin lyrics, over-orchestrated melodies.”
“So I’m told.”
“You may not have been told, as I’ve been, that Smith enjoys young women, preferably more than one at a time. And makes considerable use of groupies, as well as professionals, to help him . . . relax between recording sessions and gigs.”
“Minors?”
“There’ve been rumblings that there might have been an underage fan now and again, though he’s usually more careful. No violence that I’ve heard of. Though he likes bondage games, he prefers being the one bound.”
“He one of yours?”
“No, he’s still with his original label. I could probably poach him, but his music just annoys me.”
“Okay, moving on. There Niles Renquist, works for U.N. Delegate Marshall Evans.”
“I know Renquist, slightly. So do you.”
“I do?”
“You met him, I think it was last spring, at another appalling obligation.” He watched her eyebrows draw together as she tried to place it—the place, the meet, the man. “More a quick introduction than a meet, actually. A silent auction benefiting, well, there you have me,” he murmured. “I’d need my book for that. But it was a few months ago, here in New York. You’d have been introduced to him and his wife at some point.”
Because she couldn’t bring it in, she let it go. “Did I have an impression?”
“Apparently not. He’s, let’s see . . . conservative, leaning toward stuffy. Late thirties, I’d say, well-spoken, well-educated. What you might call a bit prissy. His wife’s quite pretty in the British tea party style. They have homes here and in England, I know, as I recall his wife telling me she enjoyed New York, but much preferred their home outside London where she could garden properly.”
“Did you have an impression?”
“Can’t say I liked either