“Careful where you step.”
He removed the domes.
She saw what she thought was some kind of chicken that managed to look a little crispy and moist at the same time, a scoop of herby rice—he’d snuck some peas in that. And those odd—and oddly tasty—purple carrots.
“It could be a kind of compliment. It is a kind of compliment,” she said as she sat. “When it’s not annoying.”
“Which would make you the child who has to be reminded, and often coaxed, to eat. What did you have for lunch?”
“I had a brownie.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Really?”
“Good brownie.” She cut into the chicken, sampled it. And realized, yeah, it hit a pretty much empty stomach. “Nice kick to this.”
She reached over to give his hand a squeeze before he lectured her. “Thanks.”
“That’s sneaky of you.”
“Yeah, but I also mean it. What did you have for lunch?”
“A chef’s salad.”
“Why is it a chef’s salad? Who’s the chef? You don’t cook a salad.”
He tapped his fork in the air in her direction. “That’s a weak way to change the subject.”
“Maybe. She caught me, Elder caught me. But it was the where. It was the playground, Roarke. I sat on that same damn bench with Nadine a few weeks ago. A two-minute walk from where Mavis and the rest of them are going to live. Sat there with kids running around. Chased off some asshole street thief and warned him I’d kick his ass if he ever came back where my friend’s kid played. I meant it.
“How much worse is this?”
“I know.” He gave her hand a squeeze in return. “She’s going to white sage it.”
“What? Who and what?”
He smiled again. “Mavis didn’t mention it to you, I see. She’s going to ask Peabody—with her Free-Ager cred—to white sage the playground once you find him and put him away. No doubt in her, absolutely none, you’ll do just that.”
“What does that even mean? The sage thing.”
“It’s a kind of purifying ritual. Banishes the negative energy.”
“Oh, for—” Eve cut herself off. “Fine, good. Whatever works for her.” She scooped up some rice, then considered. “Is it legal?”
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be.”
“Okay then.” But she’d check. “So, Jamie. What’re you paying him?”
“Triple what he’s making interning for Feeney.”
“Figured.” She smiled, drank some wine. “He’s going to end up a cop.”
“Odds are you’re right, but a good taste of the private sector may change that. Still, if and when he decides on a cop’s life, he’ll know it’s his calling, won’t he?”
“Now who’s sneaky?”
“We can say that’s my calling. So, tell me what I can do.”
He would always ask, she knew, and would always mean it.
“Identify a woman who may or may not have existed about sixty years ago.”
“Challenging.”
“Well, seriously, I’ve got Jamie and Nadine pushing on that—and good luck to them. I’ll dig at it myself, but … If she existed, and if she had a criminal record, and she had the tat—the identifying mark—at the time, maybe we hit. That would give us something to work off of. Did she have a kid? Who’s the kid, where’s the kid? And maybe she didn’t have a bio kid. Maybe she fostered, or served as a mother figure in some other way.”
“Most of the time, the truth is simple. You have to look at all the angles and possibilities, but the simplest is the woman he’s trying to re-create is or was his mother.”
“You thought Meg was yours until a couple years ago.”
“Another truth.” He thought it over as they ate. “I never felt anything but fear and contempt for her, and certainly wouldn’t have tried to re-create her. Why would I want back a woman who, it seemed to me, derived her greatest joy in making my life a misery?”
“So your truth would be that this woman who may or may not exist—and screw it, she existed—didn’t do that.”
“First, we agree she existed. You don’t do what was done to Elder over a phantom or illusion. The simplest answer is he, at one time at least, depended on her. Loved her, as children love their mothers.”
“That’s not love.”
“Love flips to hate easily enough for some. And obsession. Wouldn’t you say he wants what he had, or believed he had?”