Page 74 of Passions in Death
“Okay, good. The partner’s desk deal. That would never work for us.”
“I do on occasion use your auxiliary.”
“On occasion, and for short duration. How could you buy the next quadrant of the universe if I’m sitting across from you digging for a murderer?”
“And how could you dig for a murderer if I’m sitting across from you negotiating the price of the next quadrant of the universe?”
“Exactly. But it’ll work for Peabody and McNab. How do you negotiate buying a quadrant of the universe?”
“Skillfully. But this morning I settled for closing the deal on a small resort in Australia.”
“Australia? What are you going to do with a resort in Australia?”
“Make some improvements, which will include a five-star luxury spa and a few private villas. It’s been let go a bit.”
“So you grabbed the opportunity.”
“I did, yes. But I’ll look into that quadrant for you first chance I have.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me.” She polished off her waffles, rose to go to her closet.
“Why are there kangaroos there? It’s not like you see them hopping around the Bronx.”
“You don’t often see elephants or lemurs there, either. I suppose things have their place.”
“And crocodiles. They’ve got crocodiles down there. Who decided it was a good idea to make something that swims around waiting to eat you? Sharks. There’s another one. What do they do but swim around, eat fish—or people when they get a chance—and make more sharks?
“And people think New York’s dangerous,” she continued. “Then they’re off swimming in some lagoon, la-la-la, and chomp. Or it’s how much fun it is to hike in the woods, and bang, a snake bites your ass. You decide to vacation in some cabin, because peaceful and pretty vistas. And it’s all fine until some bear mauls you to death.”
Roarke listened with genuine fascination as she reeled off various deaths by nature.
“Sailing along in your big-ass yacht, drink too much, fall overboard. And a shark bites off your leg. Take an African safari, and you’re just asking to get eviscerated, dragged off into some jungle, and eaten. But people do it.”
She stepped out in tan trousers, a white tee, carrying a navy jacket.
“People do it,” she repeated, and walked over to hook on her weapon harness. “Then they come here, goggle at everything with their wallets all but hanging out, and when it’s stolen, people back where they come from remind them, smugly, New York’s a dangerous place. How they should’ve gone to Australia to see the cute kangaroos.”
She loaded her pockets.
“And when they do, Marge is taking pictures of the cute kangaroos when one of the big bastards with the long claws hops up and slices Waldo open so his guts spill out on the ground.”
“Remind me not to let you anywhere near the marketing for the resort.”
She sent Roarke a dark, knowing look. “It could happen—the guts, not me and marketing. I’ve got to go meet Peabody at the art gallery.”
Still fascinated, he rose. Then gripped her hips, kissed her. “I don’t expect you to come across kangaroos or sharks and the rest, but see you take care of my cop nonetheless.”
“I’ll do that. Galahad’s enjoying the syrup still on the plates.”
Roarke glanced back, saw the cat licking his whiskers. “Bloody hell. You distracted me.”
“Guess I’m good at it, too.” She gave him another quick kiss. “See you later.”
She’d distracted herself, she admitted as she jogged downstairs and out. With thoughts on predatory wildlife.
She’d rather face a gang of thugs hopped up on Zeus than a single kangaroo with six-inch claws.
Or however long they were.
