The Raven Master. Diana Whitney
that he’d wanted to do a great deal more than move John Hancock along, Marlowe returned his attention to the woman in front of him.
“Darcy’s a reporter,” Hannah revealed with a sly expression. “Sadly, she had some trouble a few days ago. Poor dear was mugged right outside her front door. I feel somewhat responsible since I’d talked to her not five minutes earlier.”
“You didn’t see anyone?”
Catching his arm, Hannah brought him down to her level. “See those hedges? A body could be murdered on the far side, and no one would ever know about it. If only she’d screamed.”
“Guess she didn’t think of it.”
“Fortunately, the man ran away, no real harm done. Cristian will be trimming those bushes down to waist height as soon as he gets his second wind. I’d ask Eddie to do it, but it’s difficult to schedule outdoor chores between sporting events.” She dismissed the matter and straightened. “Now about that room. Seeing as it’s my last, and Eddie scored on one of his long-shot bets this past week, we might be able to negotiate the price down a tad. Say forty-five dollars a night from fifty?”
Marlowe glanced at Darcy’s hedge. “Does that include breakfast?”
“Lunch, as well, if you want it.” She held out her hand. “Do we have a deal?”
Big mistake, Marlowe’s instincts warned. He felt the darkness rolling through him. But in the end, it was Darcy he saw, and Darcy he continued to see even as the carousel of his mind revolved.
And with the darkness still slithering through his head, he accepted her hand.
“THANK YOU, THANK YOU, thank you.” On the threshold of Darcy’s office, Elaine hugged an eleven-page printout to her chest. “You not only made deadline, but you also made the moon chocolate readable.”
“Well, hey, what are sleepless nights for if not to draft and redraft feature articles?”
“Yeah, what’s up with that?” Removing thick reading glasses, her editor, a tall, narrow-chested woman in her early fifties, came in to perch on the arm of the sofa. “Some pervert jumps you outside your front door, and I hear about it from a cop? Really, kiddo, there’s such a thing as a telephone.”
Keys and sunglasses in hand, Darcy checked her e-mail. “There was more to it than I could tell you.”
“Like a dead man in a sleazy motel room?”
“I can’t give you details, Elaine. You know how the system works.”
“I also know how much attention you usually pay to that system.” Elaine leaned forward. “Was it anyone you knew?”
“No comment.” Darcy reached for her shoulder bag, popped the glam sunglasses on top of her head and started for the door. “At least not until Monday.”
Elaine bared her teeth. “This is so annoying. We both know how this stuff sells, and you’re shutting me out.”
“All I want to shut right now is the door.”
Reaching back inside, Darcy snagged Elaine’s wrist. “Give me a break, okay? It’s a thousand degrees today, my landlady’s given me five casseroles that no one with half a brain would eat, and if you think the cops are keeping me apprised of the investigation, you’re wrong.” At the elevator bank, she pressed Down. “I answered questions, gave my statement, answered more questions, then went home and spent the rest of yesterday and most of last night refining an article you insisted had to be done by Monday. Be happy. It’s only Saturday, and there it is, in your freshly manicured hands.”
Elaine admired her fingernails as they boarded the elevator. “I got the works for my date tonight.”
“Yeah? Are we talking hot stud at last?”
“So-so. He’s the CEO of a cable station that aspires to rival CNN.”
Darcy let her eyes sparkle. “Does personality enter the picture at all?”
Elaine’s lips smiled, her eyes didn’t. “I’m fifty-something, kiddo. I’ve been married twice and lost money both times. I want Ebenezer Scrooge this time. Rich and stingy—except when it comes to me. Barring that elusive miracle, I’ll have to hope and pray our little newsmagazine can break a story that has our big Manhattan brothers scrambling to catch up.”
“So that would be a no to the personality question.”
On the street with the burn of the early-evening sun on her shoulders, Darcy let Elaine pull her to a stop. “Get me an exclusive, okay? The magazine needs it. Your coworkers need it. I need it.”
“I’ll do my best.” Darcy tweaked her editor’s collar. “In the meantime, go home, cool down, get ready for tonight. I’ll see you Monday.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
It was the tone of her voice more than her words that echoed in Darcy’s head.
Too revved to return home, she detoured to the gym, the wonderfully cool gym with the fitness instructor whose hot body paled next to the memory of a certain P.I. she was determined to run, punch or meditate out of her system.
Of course it didn’t work, but then she didn’t expect it to. Any man whose face haunted her patchy sleep wasn’t likely to be blown off that easily.
After showering, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a white tank top, packed her gear and headed for home.
Her arrival was greeted by a barking dog and the lingering traces of a barbecue. Mrs. Brewster’s cat, Hodgepodge, lay on his back on the sidewalk with his paws in the air. Overhead, a faint breeze rustled the neighborhood trees.
Crouching as she passed, Darcy tickled Podge’s tummy and received a yawning meow in response.
She realized with a twinge that she’d forgotten to set her house alarm when she’d left today. Foolish? Yes. But on the plus side, the front hedge had been trimmed as promised, and there was still a glimmer of light in the sky.
Her cell phone rang while she was climbing the porch stairs.
She glanced at the screen. “Oh, good. Perfect.” She flipped it open. “I thought you’d be long gone by now, Marlowe.”
“Guess we both thought wrong.”
“So are we talking choice here or police order?”
She imagined his faint smile. “You found the body, Darcy.”
“After you got us into the motel room.”
“What can I say? Val’s captain’s a fan.”
“Which means you’re staying by choice, then.”
“A dead client in a bathtub isn’t good enough reason to stay?”
She dropped her keys in a bowl, her purse and gym bag on a high-backed chair. “Aren’t you the one who said he didn’t give a rat’s ass about anybody—what was it your friend called you— M?”
“Val can’t get his tongue around my name after a few drinks. Calling me M is the simple solution.”
“Your friend had more than a few drinks last night if the coat I saw on his tongue today was any indication. I’m going out on a limb here, Marlowe, but I’d speculate that Detective Reade has some serious issues in his life.”
“And you know someone who doesn’t?”
Removing the bush hat she’d bought in Sydney, she shook her hair. “Tell me, have you always lived on the dark side?”
“You ask a lot of questions, Darcy.”
“To which you give very few answers.”
Wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear, she reached into the cupboard. “I saw your Land Rover at Hannah