Page 73 of Bonded in Death

She moved on to Harry Mitchell—Magpie—the thief.

She imagined Roarke would find some common ground there. A street kid, a runaway with a father cited for child abuse, a mother with a couple rounds of rehab.

Not as slick a thief as Roarke, she thought, as Harry had done some small time—as a juvenile, and again as an adult—for his choice of career.

He’d had a younger sister, sixteen to his nineteen when he’d done the second stint. Six months for attempting to pawn a stolen ring. The sister had perished while he’d been inside, a victim of stray bullets fired when she’d walked home from her job as a hotel maid.

And there, the story changed. An early release—compassionate reduction—and employment as a supply clerk.

“Bogus, Harry, bogus. The Underground recruited you straight out of prison when you were vulnerable, angry, grieving. You stole and scouted for them while they had you listed as counting inventory and stocking cans of soup.”

According to the data, he’d continued to live in London after the wars, as a photographer. And indeed, Peabody had attached a number of his photos starting with the aftermath and rebuilding after the Urbans.

His photography took him all over Europe.

“So you kept your hand in, too.”

He hadn’t married until the age of forty-eight, when he became the third husband of a woman of considerable means. They lived in London, had a home in the Lake District and a flat in Florence.

At the age of sixty-three, he traveled primarily with his wife, and continued his photography.

“Retired, maybe, or semi. Unless the well-off wife’s in the covert business, too.”

She turned to the third report when Peabody sent it.

She found nothing in Iris Arden’s background—the Mole—to indicate she was anything but a woman born into a wealthy family who’d grown up privileged, entitled, traveled well and extensively with her family.

She’d grown up in a London mansion, with a full complement of staff—private tutors, then public school. Which meant important and private in England for some reason.

Everything pointed to a young, reckless, live-for-today sort. The parties given and attended even while blood splattered.

She’d inherited the family business after the wars, and had, by all evidence, run it shrewdly, expanded it successfully.

Generous to her charities—one of which she’d founded herself. A school, not, Eve realized, unlike An Didean.

She’d married and divorced in her mid-twenties. Then at thirty-four had married again. Was still married to Sebastian Griggs, a portrait artist. The marriage had produced three children, two of whom worked for the family business. The third had begun to make a name for herself as an artist.

“You could’ve hidden any additional intelligence work, but I think you said enough. Maybe had enough. And there was the family business to deal with.”

Sitting back, she shoved her hands through her hair.

When her ’link signaled, she found a text from Roarke:

No need to interrupt what I’m sure is a very busy day for you. You should know preparations are in place for company. I should be home by three. If you need or want something else in place, let me know, and I’ll see to it. Feed my cop.

She had to laugh at the last bit. He never quit. Plus, it couldn’t possibly be time to eat again.

Then she glanced at the time. Sighed.

“How the hell does that happen? How the hell did it get to be noon?”

She didn’t have time—okay, didn’t want to take time—to feed the cop. And now if she didn’t, she’d feel guilty. Which was stupid. It was her stomach.

A candy bar was food, but she realized if today of all days she found the Candy Thief had struck again, she might just implode.

Not worth the risk.

She considered, stared at her AutoChef.

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