In Death 24 - Innocent in Death

hell knows? The kid’s playing it out perfectly, but she didn’t stump Mira, not this time. So we’re getting some weight.”
    “We’ve got more. I found the diary.”
    Eve had to stop herself from doing a victory dance as she pushed out the hospital doors.
    “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
    “You’re damn straight. Took freaking hours.”
    “Where?”
    “In the kitchen recycler. I went over every damn inch of this place, kept the uniforms on to help. Why the hell didn’t I think of the recycler first?”
    “How much is left?”
    “All, I’d say, as it’s inside a fancy metal box embossed with her name. I can tell there’s a book inside it-the weight, and it thumps around when I shake it. Only went through one cycle, I think. Banged up. Locked tight, too. Lock’s too small for a master, and it’s caved in. Probably have to cut through it.”
    “I’m swinging by to get it. Roarke will beat the lock.”
    291
     
    “Mag. I’ll touch on McNab, tell him to put Valentine’s on hold.”
    “No.” Eve climbed into her vehicle. “It’s going to take time to put all this together.
    Fucking tricky business. I’ll take the diary, log it in and out of evidence.”
    “Already logged it in by remote.”
    “Even better. For now, you go home, have a drink, have sex with McNab if you must.”
    “I must,” Peabody concurred. “I must.”
    “Be sure to block video if I tag you later. I don’t wish to be struck blind. We’re going to put this together, and we’re going to lock it down.”
    She clicked off. “Rayleen, you little shitbag,” she mumbled. “I got you.”
    While Eve drove, contacting both Whitney and Mira to update, Roarke selected the champagne he wanted for dinner.
    He’d worked most of the day, and very soon, he hoped, both he and Eve would put their responsibilities aside. And just enjoy each other.
    He knew she’d be pleased, and get a good laugh out of his choice for the meal. For their intimate, at-home dinner for two, he’d chosen pepperoni pizza. A personal favorite of hers.
    He’d also selected what could loosely be called lingerie for her dinner attire. She’d laugh at that, too. And he would certainly enjoy seeing his wife in the red silk chemise trimmed with white ermine.
    As she hadn’t contacted him to tell him she’d gotten hung up, he thought the chances were good they’d make that dinner at eight. He’d decided they’d dine in Prague, courtesy of the holo-room. The romantic architecture, a thickly falling snow outside the windows, Gypsy violins singing in the air.
    A bit over the top, he supposed, but why the hell not?
    “Roarke.”
    “Hmm.” He acknowledged Summerset as he completed his selections, set the programming.
    “Magdelana is at the gate.”
    “She’s what?”
    292
     
    “At the gate,” Summerset repeated. “Asking to come in, a bit tearfully. She claims she must speak with you, even for just a moment. Should I tell her you’re unavailable?”
    That would be the easy way, Roarke supposed, and damned if he wasn’t tempted to take it easy. But if he didn’t deal with this now, he’d just have to deal with it later. And he could admit to a certain curiosity. Just how would Maggie explain herself this time?
    “No, let her in. Show her into the parlor. I’ll deal with her.”
    “The lieutenant should, I believe, be home within the hour.”
    “Yes, so make it quick. Let’s move this business along and be done with it.”
    Troublemaker, Roarke thought as Summerset went to give Magdelana access. He’d always known she was one, and had, in fact, found that attractive. But he hadn’t seen, not clearly, just how deep the penchant for stirring up the pot went in her.
    He knew how to handle troublemakers. Once he had, she’d go off, understanding him perfectly. And that would most definitely be that.
    He took his time going down. Do her good to cool her heels, he thought. And Summerset would make certain she didn’t palm any of the silver.
    As he expected, Summerset remained in the parlor, and had given Magdelana, who looked pale and delicate in ivory satin, a glass of wine.
    She stood by the fire, at the optimum distance, the perfect angle for the flames to sprinkle light over her skin, to glow light through the satin.
    Setting the stage had always been a skill of hers. Only this time he’d been the mark. And as far as she was concerned, he still was.
    “Roarke.” She lowered her head, as if in shame. But not before the