Reunion in Death

«Not well. But enough to appreciate his business sense and to know he was a pleasant sort of man.»

«Yeah, everybody loved good old Walt.»

«The media report said he'd collapsed at his home during a party to celebrate his sixtieth birthday; one we were invited to,» he added. «But as I wasn't sure precisely when we'd be back or what mood we'd be in, I declined. Murder wasn't mentioned, just that the police were investigating.»

«Media vultures wouldn't have the official ME's report yet. I just got it myself. It's homicide. Somebody slipped some cyanide in his drink. What do you know about the ex-wife?»

«Not a great deal. I believe they were married for a number of years, divorced without any scandal. He married some pretty young thing sometime after. There was some head shaking over that, but the gossip died down quickly enough. Walter wasn't the sort of man who made a target for gossip. Just not enough juice.»

Eve sat, stretched out her legs. When she reached down to pet Galahad, the cat growled low in his throat. With a feline glare for Eve, he flicked his tail, leaped down, and stalked away.

«He's annoyed we didn't take him on vacation.» Roarke smothered a grin as Eve scowled after the cat. «He and I have made up, but it appears he's still holding a grudge where you're concerned.»

«Little prick.»

«Name calling is no way to mend fences. Try fresh tuna. It works wonders.»

«I'm not bribing a damn cat.» She lifted her voice, certain the party in question was still within earshot. «He doesn't want me touching him, fine and dandy. He wants to be pissed off because …» She trailed off as she heard herself. «Jesus. Where was I? Pettibone. Juice. Well, he had enough juice for somebody to want him dead. And the way it's shaping up, to pay for a pro.»

«A professional hit on Walter Pettibone?» Roarke lifted a brow. «That doesn't feel like a good fit.»

«Woman gets a job at the caterers just about the time the current Mrs. Pettibone is planning the big surprise party. The same woman works the Pettibone affair, and brings the birthday boy the fatal glass of champagne. Hands it to him personally, wishes him happy birthday. Hangs back, but stays in the room while he makes his mushy toast, and drinks. When he's spazzing on the floor, she walks out of the apartment and poof! Vanishes.»

She frowned a little as Roarke rose, poured her a glass of wine, then sat on the arm of her chair.

«Thanks. I had sweepers go over her place a place she rented two days before she took the catering job, and one she moved out of this morning. One, according to her neighbors, she spent little time in. No prints, no trace evidence. Not a fucking stray hair. She sanitized it. I went by there myself. Little one-room place, low rent, low security. But she had police locks installed to keep the riffraff out.»

«Are you looking at what is her name? Muffy? Twinkie?»

«Bambi. Comes off like she's got the mental capacity of broccoli, but we'll run her. She seems sincerely a dink, but she's now a really rich, widowed dink. Maybe the ex-wife bided her time,» Eve mused. «Played nice while she worked things out. You're married to a guy thirty years, you've got a serious investment. Gonna irritate you when he trades you in.»

«I'll keep that in mind.»

«Me, I don't hire hits.» She looked up at his mouthwatering face. «I'd give you the basic courtesy of killing you myself.»

«Thank you, darling.» He leaned over to kiss the top of her head. «It's comforting to know you'd take a personal interest in such a matter.»

«I'll check out the first Mrs. Pettibone in the morning. If she did the hiring, she'd be my best link to this Julie Dockport.»

«Interesting. A professional killer who selects the name of a prison as her surname.»

She paused with the wineglass at her lips. «What?»

«Dockport Rehabilitation Center. I believe I had an acquaintance who spent some time in that particular facility,» he replied as he toyed with the ends of her hair. «I think it's in Illinois, or perhaps Indiana. One of those Midwest places.»

«Wait a minute, wait a minute.» She pushed to her feet. «Dockport. Poison. Wait, wait.» She pressed her fingers to her temples, drilled them for the data.

«Julie. No, not Julie. Julianna. Julianna Dunne. Eight, nine years back. Right after I got my gold shield. Poisoned her husband. Big charity fundraiser at the Met. I worked the case. She was slippery, she was slick. She'd done it before. Twice before. Once in East Washington, again in Chicago. That's how we got her, the one in Chicago. I worked with the CPSD. She'd marry a rich guy, then she'd off him, take the money, and go reinvent herself for the next target.»

«You sent her up?»