In defense, she pressed two fingers against it. "You and McNab. In Bimini. Together."
"Well, you know, since we're trying this whole we're-a-couple thing on for size, it seemed like a good idea. And when Roarke said we could use one of his transpos and this place he has on Bimini, we jumped."
"His transpo. His place on Bimini." The muscle leaped against her fingers.
Eyes shining, Peabody forgot herself enough to lower a hip to the corner of the desk. "Man, Dallas, it was absolutely ult. It's like this little palace or something. It's got its own waterfall into the pool, and an all-terrain, and hydroskis. And the master suite has this gel-bed that's about the size of Saturn."
"I don't want to hear about the bed."
"And it's really private, even though it's right on the beach, so we just romped around naked as monkeys half the time."
"And I don't want to hear about naked romping."
Peabody tucked her tongue in her cheek. "Sometimes we were only half-naked. Anyway," she said before Eve screamed, "it was mag. And I wanted to get Roarke some kind of thank-you gift. But since he has everything, literally, I'm clueless. I thought maybe you could suggest something."
"Is this a cop shop or a social club?"
"Come on, Dallas. We're all caught up with work." Peabody smiled hopefully. "I thought maybe I could give him one of the throws my mother makes. You know, she weaves, and she does really beautiful work. Would he like that?"
"Look, he won't expect a gift. It's not necessary."
"It was the best vacation I ever had, in my life. I want him to know how much I appreciated it. It meant a lot to me, Dallas, that he'd think of it."
"Yeah, he's always thinking." But she softened; she couldn't help it. "He'd get a real kick out of having something your mother made."
"Really? That's great then. I'll get in touch with her tonight."
"Now that we've had our little reunion here, Peabody, isn't there some work to be done?"
"Actually, we're clear."
"Then get me some cold files."
"Any ones in particular?"
"Dealer's choice. I've got to do something."
"I'm on it." She started out, paused. "You know one of the best things about going away? It's coming back."
* * *
Eve spent the morning picking through unsolved cases, looking for a thread that hadn't been snipped, an angle that hadn't been explored. The one that interested her the most was the matter of twenty-six-year-old Marsha Stibbs, who'd been found submerged in the bathtub by her husband, Boyd, when he'd returned from an out-of-town business trip.
On the surface, it had appeared to be one of those tragic and typical home accidents—until the ME's report had verified that Marsha hadn't drowned, but had been dead before that last bubble bath.
Since she'd gone into the tub with a fractured skull, she hadn't slid into the froth and fragrance under her own power.
The investigator had turned up evidence that indicated Marsha had been having an affair. A packet of love letters from someone who signed himself with the initial C had been hidden away in the victim's lingerie drawer. The letters were sexually explicit and full of pleas for her to divorce her husband and run away with her lover.
According to the report, the letters and their contents had shocked the husband and everyone interviewed who'd known the victim. The husband's alibi had been solid, as were all the background checks.
Boyd Stibbs, a regional rep for a sporting goods firm, was by all appearances Mr. All-American guy, making a slightly better than average income, married for six years to his college sweetie who'd gone on to become a buyer for a major department store. He liked to play flag football on Sundays, had no drinking, gambling, or illegals problem. There was no history of violence, and he had volunteered for Truth Testing, which he'd passed with flying colors.
They were childless, lived in a quiet West Side apartment building, socialized with a tight circle of friends, and up to the point of her death had shown all signs of having a happy, solid marriage.
The investigation had been thorough, careful, and complete. Yet the primary had never been able to find any trace of the alleged lover with the initial C.
Eve tagged Peabody on the interoffice 'link. "Saddle up, Peabody. Let's go knock on some doors." She tucked the file in her bag, snagged the jacket from the back of her chair, and headed out.