She caught the scent as soon as she stepped into the conference room, and much preferred it to the olfactory bombardment at Scentual.
Somebody, she thought, brought in gyros.
She made her way over to Roarke’s workstation, noted he’d gone for the cold-cut sub. He paused in his work long enough to pick up half the sub, hand it to her. “Eat something.”
She peered between the slabs of roll. “What is it?”
“No substance in nature, I can promise you. That’s why I said eat something.”
More to please him than out of appetite, she took a bite. “I need to talk to you.”
“If you’re after some answers on this chore you gave me, you won’t get any as yet. There are, literally, countless homes, private residences, warehouses, and other potential structures in New York, the boroughs, into New Jersey, that have been owned by the same person or persons or organization for the last decade.”
“How are you handling it?”
“Dividing into sections—quadrants, you could say. Subdividing by types of structure, then by types of ownership. It’s bloody tedious work.”
“You asked for it.”
“So I did.” Watching her, he picked up a bottle of water, drank.
“There’s something else. The lab’s identified the soap and shampoo used to wash down the vic.”
“Yeah, Dickhead’s got his teeth in it. He worked the case before.”
“He uses extremely high-end products. Very exclusive. Only one outlet in New York, two locations. It’s yours.”
“Mine?” He sat back, eyes cold and hard on her face. “And so was the sheet he used.”
“That’s right.” Now, simply because it was there and so was she, Eve took another bite of mystery-meat sub. “Someone less cynical might think coincidence, particularly since you manufacture or own big, fat chunks of everything.”