“Get another bottle while you’re at it,” she told him, grinning as she shook the last drops into her glass. “Someone drank all of this one.”
Amused, he slipped back inside, crossed the wide living space with its clear glass ceiling and feather-soft carpets. He wanted her there, to start, he decided, on that yielding floor with the ice-edged stars wheeling overhead. He plucked a long white lily out of a porcelain dish, imagining how he would show her just what a clever man could do to a woman with the petals of a flower.
He was smiling as he turned into the foyer with its gilded walls and sweeping marble staircase. Flipping on the view screen, he prepared to send the room service waiter to perdition for the interruption.
With some surprise he saw the face of one of his assistant engineers. “Carter? Trouble?”
Carter rubbed a hand over a face that was dead pale and damp with sweat. “Sir. I’m afraid there is. I need to speak with you. Please.”
“All right. Just a moment.” Roarke let out a sigh as he flicked off the screen, disengaged the locks. Carter was young for his position, in his middle twenties, but he was a genius at design and execution. If there was a problem with the construction, it was best to deal with it now.
“Is it the sky glide at the salon?” Roarke asked as he opened the door. “I thought you’d worked out the kinks there.”
“No—I mean, yes, sir, I have. It’s working perfectly now.”
The man was trembling, Roarke realized, and forgot his annoyance. “Has there been an accident?” He took Carter’s arm, steered him into the living area, nudged him into a chair. “Has someone been hurt?”
“I don’t know—I mean, an accident?” Carter blinked, stared glassily. “Miss. Ma’am. Lieutenant,” he said as Eve came in. He started to rise, then fell weakly down again when she gave him a quick push.
“He’s in shock,” she said to Roarke, her voice brisk. “Try some of that fancy brandy you’ve got around here.” She crouched down, kept her face level with his. His pupils were pinpricks. “Carter, isn’t it? Take it slow.”
“I . . .” His face went waxy now. “I think I’m going to be—”
Before he could finish, Eve whipped his head down between his knees. “Breathe. Just breathe. Let’s have that brandy, Roarke.” She held out a hand, and he was there with a snifter.
“Pull it together, Carter.” Roarke eased him back onto the cushions. “Take a swallow of this.”
“Yes, sir.”
“For Christ’s sake, stop sirring me to death.”
Color came back into Carter’s cheeks, either from the brandy or from embarrassment. He nodded, swallowed, let out a breath. “I’m sorry. I thought I was okay. I came right up. I didn’t know if I should—I didn’t know what else to do.” He spread a hand over his face like a kid at a horror video. He hitched in a breath and said it quickly. “It’s Drew, Drew Mathias, my roomie. He’s dead.”
Air exploded out of his lungs, then shuddered back in. He took another deep gulp of brandy and choked on it.
Roarke’s eyes went flat. He pulled together a picture of Mathias: young, eager, red hair and freckles, an electronics expert with a specialty in autotronics. “Where, Carter? How did it happen?”
“I thought I should tell you right away.” Now there were two high bruising red flags riding on Carter’s pasty cheeks. “I came right up to tell you—and your wife. I thought since she’s—she’s the police, she could do something.”
“You need a cop, Carter?” Eve took the snifter out of his unsteady hand. “Why do you need a cop?”
“I think—he must have—he killed himself, Lieutenant. He was hanging there, just hanging there from the ceiling light in the living room. And his face . . . Oh God. Oh Jesus.”
Eve left Carter to bury his own face in his hands and turned to Roarke. “Who’s got authority on site for something like this?”
“We’ve got standard security, most of it automated.” Accepting, he inclined his head. “I’d say it’s you, Lieutenant.”
“Okay, see if you can put together a field kit for me. I need a recorder—audio and video—some Seal It, evidence bags, tweezers, a couple of small brushes.”
She hissed out a breath as she dragged a hand through her hair. He wasn’t going to have the equipment lying around that would pinpoint body temperature and time of death. There would be no scanner, no sweepers, none of the standard chemicals for forensics she carried habitually to crime scenes.
They’d have to wing it.
“There’s a doctor, right? Call him. He’ll have to stand in as the ME. I’ll get dressed.”
Most of the techs made use of the completed wings of the hotel for living quarters. Carter and Mathias had apparently hit it off well enough to share a spacious two-bedroom suite during their shift on the station. As they rode down to the tenth floor, Eve handed Roarke the palm recorder.
“You can run this, right?”