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“Okay. Second. He’s going to talk to you, and you’re going to get fodder for that book you’re thinking about. Keep it under wraps while I go nail this fucker closed. But you can leak—in, say, thirty minutes—that Joel Steinburger’s been arrested.”
Eve walked out. “Peabody, with me. You, too,” she said to Roarke, “if you want to.”
“Always.”
“I bet Steinburger’s having brandy and dessert about now. Let’s go spoil his after-dinner liqueur.”
•••
Since Roarke owned the place, with all its raw brick, deep wood paneling, and dark red leather, Eve knew she didn’t have to badge her way in.
She just wanted to. Wanted to cause the sort of scene that drew an audience and tipped tags to the media. She glanced at her wrist unit. Nadine had a five-minute head start.
She’d earned it.
“Sir.” Spotting Roarke, the maître d’ sprang to attention. “I’ll have a table ready in just a moment.”
“Joel Steinburger.” Eve held up her badge.
“Of course. Mr. Steinburger and Mr. Delacora are enjoying dessert. I’ll show you to their booth.”
Eve had already spotted him—a rear corner, facing out. See and be seen, she thought. He swirled brandy, an important and satisfied look on his face as he spoke with his wiry, wild-maned companion.
“I see him.” Ignoring the maître d’, she crossed the restaurant.
Steinburger’s expression changed when he saw her approach. The furrowed brow, she thought, a mix of annoyance and concern. Then the polite resignation as he set down the brandy, started to rise.
“Lieutenant. Nick, this is the genuine article. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Nicholas Delacora.”
“A pleasure,” Delacora began.
“It’s probably not going to be. Sorry to interrupt.”
“Has there been an arrest?” Steinburger asked.
“Funny you should ask. Joel Steinburger, you’re under arrest for the murder of K.T. Harris, for the murder of A. A. Asner,” she continued, spinning him around, yanking his hands behind his back as he blustered. “And the attempted murder of Julian Cross. He didn’t die,” she added.
Dishes clattered; the murmur of conversation turned to a buzz.
“You’ve lost your mind.”
“Oh, and we’ve got more.” She cuffed him. “A lot more. Hope you ate hearty, Joel, because you won’t be dining in style for the rest of your life. You have the right to remain silent,” she began, and reeled off the Revised Miranda while diners gaped. “Officers.”
The uniforms she’d called in took Steinburger by both arms. “Book him, Peabody. Additional charges to come.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
“I’ll be along shortly.”
She enjoyed, a great deal, watching the cops perp-walk Steinburger out.
“Sorry about dessert,” she said to Delacora. “It looks good, too.”
“Is this a joke?” he demanded.
“No. It really does look good.” She frowned when she saw Roarke talking to the maître d’, walked to him. “Look, I’m sorry if arresting a murderer puts people off their dinner, but—”
“On the contrary, I think it stirred some appetites. Including mine. I’m hungry and I’m not risking food poisoning from Central’s vending machines.”
