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Harry Mitchell came next, and the small, wiry man with a flop of sandy blond hair still walked on cat’s paws.

He shot out a crooked grin. “Been a time since I sat down with coppers.” His cockney accent hit a scale so far from Marjorie’s they might have come from different planets.

He strutted in, extended a hand to shake. “What I never said to coppers before this? Anything you need from me, you’ve got it. Gio was a right one. And now Alice and Leroy are back to haunt me. I was on the watch, and the bleeding fuck got by me.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Mitchell.”

“No ‘misters’ here. Harry’ll do. I taught the bleeding fuck how to pop locks.”

“Did you?”

“I did, and how to get through the systems set up against people in my line of living. In those days,” he added. “He went out with me a few times on my scouts and scavenges. Made him his first jammer me own self, and I don’t have to tell you where I’d like to jam that jammer, since I’m hearing the cocksucker’s still breathing.

“Don’t suppose a man could get a pint?”

“Peabody.”

Since she knew the story of the bombing, and the story wouldn’t change, she bypassed it. “Tell me about him. A quick study?”

“Quick enough. I wouldn’t say he could make a good living at the work, but quick enough. Better with strategy, tactics, weapons—and he liked the sharp ones. And the ladies. They didn’t have to be sharp ones for him.”

“So you spent time with him outside HQ, and off-mission.”

“Rabbit gave the green on it, and I didn’t mind the company. I’ve got a rash knowing the company I kept. Embarrassed, you could say. Thanks, Brown Eyes.”

He took the pint, and a good gulp of it. “That goes down easy.”

“You ever have a pint with Potter?”

“We raised a few. A dark pub, a pint, some toad in the hole or stotty cake sandwiches with ham and pease pudding.”

“I assume that’s food.”

“You Yanks.” Shaking his head, Harry drank again.

“I know what stotty cake is. My boyfriend’s from Scotland. It’s bread, Lieutenant, and makes great sandwiches.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. So you’d have a pub meal and pint with him. What did you talk about?”

“Not the work. You never know where the ears might be. Or if we did, we used a kind of code. We’d talk about women, as men will do, about how when it was all over, we’d go somewhere hot and sunny.”

“Hot and sunny.”

“I’d never been out of London at that time. He’d been some places, and he talked about going off to live in the hot and sunny, which sounded just the trick to me.”

“Anywhere specific?”

“France was his big one, as he thought it sophisticated. But when it was the hot and sunny, Costa Rica was one. He said there were plenty of expats down there, and a man could live like a prince. But you could still have fair-skinned women who spoke the King’s English.

“The man was a prick—I could see that even then—but he knew things. And he always paid for the pint. I wanted to know things, and whatever I stole went for the cause, so I couldn’t pay for many pints me own self.”

“Did he ever mention any names—his contacts, friends?”

“He was cagey there. If he talked about the work he did before he came on board our train, he was always the smartest in the room, the best in the field. I knew it was bollocks, but he was smart, and I learned as well as taught.”

He looked down at his beer. “He bought me a pint not twenty-four hours before he killed two of my friends. Would’ve killed me if he’d got the chance. Before he betrayed us all.

“‘Here’s to success, Harry,’” says he. “And I drank to that, drank with him, and what I drank to wasn’t what he drank to.”

Pausing, he seemed to gather himself.

“I knew that, twenty-four hours later, when I pulled Alice, bleeding, broken, barely living, out of the rubble. And me weeping over her like a baby.”

His eyes, hard, shiny with the mix of rage and grief, met Eve’s.

“He’d signaled me, you see. Heard something at my eleven o’clock. So I moved from my post, thirty, forty seconds to check. That’s when he slipped by me.”

He looked up again, and while the rage had dulled, tears sheened his eyes. “He couldn’t do for me first, you see, in case HQ signaled. He had to kill Hawk and Fawn, then get out far enough to set off the charges, then he’d know I’d run in, as they hadn’t come out. He could do for me then and be off.”

“It didn’t happen that way.”

“Alice changed it. I heard her, but it was garbled some. He’d messed with my comm. But I knew something went wrong. You’re never supposed to leave your post, but I knew something was wrong. I signaled Shark, but he didn’t answer. Then I started over, and I saw him—didn’t know at first it was Shark—running out. So I started to signal, started to run. And it all blew. It all blew, and blowing tossed me back and on my arse.

“I left my post because I trusted him. Then I didn’t leave it soon enough to help my friends, or stop the bleeding fuck who killed them.”

When she’d finished, she told Harry to ask Roarke to come up.

“We’re taking ten before the last interviews.”

Peabody’s response was “Coffee?”

“Yeah. Coffee.” Scrubbing her hands over her face, Eve walked back to the windows. “He’s good at this, that’s clear. Every one of them had training. They were wired to be suspicious, on guard, to look for tells, but they never saw him for what he was.”

“We know what he is.” Peabody handed Eve her coffee.

“He’s whoever he needs to be in any given situation. That’s a skill. But the arrogance… Even back then, the arrogance did him in. He’s played both sides, and successfully. He has intel from both sides, so he knows what’s coming. The burn-it-all-down cells are losing at this point. The risk of one of his contacts on the other side getting captured, flipping on him is growing. Instead of doing the smart thing, taking the money and whatever else he’s got and slipping away, he can’t resist one more big game.”

“And he wanted them dead.”

Eve turned to Peabody. “You’re damn right. The Underground team, and people he’d worked with in that Dominion HQ. But not just dead, dead because he’d outsmarted all of them. And then he could slip away, be whatever he wanted, whoever he wanted as long as he wanted.”

“You were looking for me, Lieutenant?”

Eve turned to Roarke as he came in. “We’re taking a break before the last interviews. You’re down there with them, and it’s your first time meeting most of them. I wanted your impressions.”

“They’re a fascinating group who’ve all led interesting lives. And the glue still holds. They’re bonded, still a unit, no matter how much time’s passed. It’s disturbing for them,” he added, “to know Potter’s still alive, and responsible now for the deaths of three of their number.

“But the glue holds.”

Since he didn’t want a cup of his own, he took Eve’s coffee, had a sip, then handed it back.

“How can I help?”

“Feeney’s running on deadline for a search. The prison doctor. I don’t want to step on his toes, and it isn’t urgent. I can’t see Potter sharing any plans with somebody he let live. So we’ll either find him, or he’s dead.

“Potter’s got a place. House, townhouse, fancy apartment. I lean toward the house—more room, more privacy. You’d want both after a few decades in a cage. But fancy apartment? Something like what Nadine has? You’ve got all the amenities. He likes the finer things, so finer. Problem is he could’ve had the place for years. Or he could’ve taken it a few weeks or months ago.”

“He’d live alone,” Roarke put in.

“Definitely. If he has domestic help, it’s droids. No matter how long he’s been there, he has a cover in place. Has to have a garage somewhere. Had to stash the limo somewhere, somewhere he could make his alterations.”

“We don’t have his face,” Peabody said. “DeWinter’s team can work up a good aged image, but if he’s had work—”

“And he has. No question he’d do alterations there, too. Feeney’s got some super e-geek working on the driver’s face. You can’t knock off twenty years or more with face work without it showing some. And there’s no way he showed us his real face. He’s arrogant, but he’s not stupid.”

“You’re sure it was Potter and not a hire?” Roarke asked.

“He had to do it himself. That’s who he is. He had to look at the camera and smirk knowing I’d look back.”

“I can contact Feeney and, without stepping on his toes, ask if there’s anything I can do to assist the super e-geek.”

“Maybe, if—” She pulled out her ’link when it signaled. “It’s Feeney. Dallas,” she said. “What you got?”

“I got Mason James Pettibottom aka Martin J. Pierce.”

“Seriously? He went with ‘Pettibottom’?”

“I figure he wanted to keep his initials. Maybe he had some shit monogrammed. He’s living it high in Costa Rica. Got himself a big-ass house, a big-ass boat, a fancy car. Damn good background and ID. Don’t know as I could’ve done better myself.”

“Give me a visual.”

“Coming. Had some face work, got a snazzy goatee. But it’s him.”

When the ID shot came on her ’link, she nodded. “Yeah, it sure as hell is.” She shoved the ’link at Roarke. “Put that on-screen, will you?”

“Hey, Roarke.”

“Feeney. Excellent work, by the way.”

Feeney scratched his fingers through his wiry explosion of hair. “Almost gave you a tug on it, but I had my teeth in it.”

Roarke studied the screen image of a man, tanned, a mane of waving sun-streaked hair, smiling green eyes.

“He looks quite happy, doesn’t he then? I suspect that’s about to change.”

“Fucking A.” She grabbed the ’link back. “Feeney, how about you contact Abernathy, the Interpol guy. He’s maybe in Manchester over there or likely on his way back. Pierce, well, we could waste time and resources getting him extradited, but Abernathy did me a solid on this one, and it’d be easy for him.”

“Wouldn’t mind a trip to Costa Rica, but the fucking paperwork. I’ll tag him.”

“I appreciate this, Feeney. He’s a link in the chain, and he may not see it that way, but he’s got blood on his hands.”

“Breaking a background like this guy set up?” Like a boxer after a long round, Feeney rolled his shoulders. “I need a challenge like that to keep me sharp.”

“Nobody sharper. Any progress on the driver’s face?”

“The boy’s working on it.”

“Could he use an assist from Roarke?”

“I’ll check in with him after I tag Interpol, see where we stand.”

“Okay. I’m going to be in Interview, so you could let Roarke know directly, either way.”

“Can do. I keep you up, you keep me up.”

“Affirmative.”

When she clicked off, she studied the screen. “He does look happy, and yeah, that’s about to change. If he knows anything about Potter, they’ll get it out of him. He won’t, unless Potter slipped up somewhere. Not impossible.”

“Unlikely,” Roarke said.

“Unlikely. One more thing. Fry’s Peppermint Cream.”

Roarke sent her an amused look. “You want some candy?”

“Who doesn’t? But no, Potter had—and probably has—a thing for them. Can you get them in New York?”

“Of course. And from any number of online venues. It’s a popular candy.”

“Delivery. Would he go for delivery? Have to think about it. Okay, break’s over.”

“Should I send up Cyril then? Iris had taken a short lie-down and was just up taking a walk when you asked for me.”

“He’s fine. We’ll take him, her, then round it out with Summerset.” She caught Roarke’s look. “Being with, talking with, his old unit may have triggered some other detail, something. Like candy, or Potter always being clean-shaven. His strict fitness regimen, his wardrobe. He likes golf.”

“Which gives you different avenues to investigate.”

“You shouldn’t worry about him, too much.” Peabody spoke up. “It should help him knowing we’re pushing hard on this.”

“You’re right, of course. I’ll send Cyril up. Ah, my impression there? He’s taking it all a bit harder than the others.”

When Roarke left, Eve turned to Peabody. “Those other avenues.”

“High-end barber shops and salons.”

“Right. Fancy candy shops, country clubs, and those sports venues that offer indoor golf.”

“Upscale men’s shops,” Peabody continued. “Fitness centers.”

“I don’t see him going to a gym, but we’ll check. More likely he has his own equipment. He’s the quiet guy in the neighborhood, or the building. Keeps to himself, but not so much you’d notice. You’re riding an elevator with him, he’s got a smile, a nod, maybe a word. Polite, a little aloof maybe, but polite. ‘Good afternoon, Ms. Smith. Lovely weather today.’”

At Eve’s attempt at a poncey British accent, Peabody grinned.

“He’d keep the accent?”

“Most likely. It’d be hard to put on the American for years without risking a slip. And there are plenty of Brits in New York.

“He’s got a background story if he needs it. Probably a widower, no kids, retired.”

“From what?”

“Something he can slide into,” Eve calculated. “From the military, government work, diplomatic service. Just a quiet, polite, well-dressed British gentleman who enjoys a round of golf and a good, close shave.”

She turned again when she heard someone approach.

Cyril Snowden, slim, small statured, stepped in. He had large, sad hazel eyes, and skin so white Eve imagined it burning red at the first beam of sunlight. In contrast, his hair was a deep russet brown with well-placed highlights. It flopped over his forehead and ears.

He tried a smile that couldn’t reach those sad eyes.

“It’s my turn in the barrel, I’m told.”

“We’ll try not to roll you too hard, Mr. Snowden.”

“Cyril, please. I feel almost as if I know you. I’ve kept up with the lives of my friends,” he added. “You’re in the life of my friend. You do very good work. I feel… It’s good to know you’re the ones in charge.”

“Can I get you some tea?” Peabody offered. “Coffee?”

“Tea would be very nice, thank you. Just a bit of cream, no sugar.”

“Have a seat.”

Eve sat across from him. “You were one of the cyber operatives for the unit.”

“Yes, Wasp and I. We often worked together. Sometimes in tandem, sometimes on separate areas. It’s why I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Gio was with the prison team with our portables. Eyes and ears, you know. Thank you, Detective.”

He took the tea, wrapped both his hands around the warmth of the cup.

“Not as sophisticated or effective as we have now, of course, but very good. I was at HQ with Rabbit, running comms, tracking locations. So I wasn’t there, and there was nothing we could do to help. It happened so fast. Fawn turned on her comm, and we could hear…”

He closed his eyes. “I hear it still. Her warning us, him cursing her. How she fought. Then the running, then… She and Hawk were gone, and there was nothing we could do. Now Gio.”

He lifted his tea. “We’d meet once or twice a year, Gio and I. Same line of work, so no harm in it. We had dinner at his home, my husband and I, our children. Met his family. A lovely family.”

Eve thought the grief soaked him, so somehow his face lost more color.

“Tell us about Potter, the one you thought you knew.”

“Ah well.” He sat back, nodding slowly. “Intelligent—very sharp. Experienced. I would have said dedicated to ending the conflict, to restoring order. He liked order.”

“Organized?”

“Yes, very. He’d have something to say if someone didn’t deal with dishes or tossed a coat or jacket on a chair. He liked things just so. Himself included. Clothes pressed—excellent clothes—hair combed, face shaven, shoes shined. The work—especially Magpie’s—caused us to be a bit disheveled. He didn’t care for that.

“He could be a bit of a prick.”

“Examples?”

“If we were working late in HQ and were lucky enough to score some hot food, someone might bring in fish and chips. Or someone might cook up some soup or stew. And he’d go on about how British cuisine was rubbish. And he’d give the Italians credit for theirs, but the French had it better.

“Not just a flick at what most of us had grown up on, but another at Wasp, you see? And no sort of gratitude, you see, for someone making a meal, or someone managing to bring in enough to feed a dozen.”

“Bad feelings? Arguments?”

“Families argue, and so we were. Thought we were,” he corrected. “Someone might shut him down there eventually. Marjorie excelled at that. Rabbit never let it go too far. Let a little steam escape, but then put the lid back on.”

He sipped his tea, then set it down again, circled the cup.

“He didn’t like working with me, or more specifically, working with a gay man. He was careful in what he said, and what he didn’t say, but it was there.

“And the women. Four of the finest women, finest soldiers, finest people I’ve ever known. He didn’t think much of them beyond using their sex to gather intel. He misjudged Fawn. That was his mistake. He worked and fought beside her, but he dismissed her.”

Tears threatened again. Eve heard them soaking his voice.

“He didn’t comprehend her dedication, her ferocity, her incomparable courage.”

But those sad eyes filled with pride. “She thwarted him. He planned to kill her, but he didn’t. She gave her life, and she stopped him. She saved lives by giving her own. After it was all over, all of it, I never wished anyone harm. There’d been so much harm, so much death. But when I heard Shark was dead, I opened a bottle of champagne. But he’s not dead, and another good friend is.”

“He liked golf,” Eve prompted.

Pulling himself back, he nodded. “Oh yes, that’s right. He did. I liked that about him. It seemed to me that talking about the pleasure of hitting a ball with a stick, or running one down a field, of dancing, laughing, anything that spoke of life was hope.”

“What else did he like?”

“The theater. He’d make a remark now and then about the cinema—rubbish again. But the theater, serious, important theater, was worthy art. Opera, ballet, worthy. Though he complained that even before the wars, most had stopped dressing appropriately for performances. He expected that when London theaters opened again, it would be even worse.

“Fussy. I thought him fussy. How did I miss it? I can see so many signs now, but I missed all of them.”

“Everyone did.”

When she let him go, Eve got up again. She needed to move.

“French restaurants.”

“Added to the list,” Peabody told her. “Along with theater. Serious stuff. Nothing fun or frothy. Opera, ballet. He’d want to indulge, wouldn’t he?”

“He would. Maybe the seasonal thing. Good seat. And he’d dress for it. Underestimates women, which would include us. He thinks he’s covered his tracks at the prison well enough. Maybe we’ll have some questions there, sure, but dead’s dead. So that buys us some time.”

She paced some more. “DeWinter’s going to come through. Feeney’s geek is going to come through. And we’ll have more. But this is giving us a hell of a good picture.”

Iris Arden swept in.

Eve recognized rich and in charge—she’d married Roarke. And that’s just what she saw in the woman with creamy golden brown skin, eyes of piercing green. She wore her hair in a short, sleek cap around a face of sharp angles.

Eve imagined she’d changed from her traveling clothes into the silky, silvery pants and flowy top, freshened her makeup.

But even with that, Eve noticed signs of recent tears.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. I’m told I can get a cocktail for the asking. I’m asking for a very dry vodka martini, two olives. It’s been one hell of a day.”

“I’ll get that for you.”

Eve gestured. “Please have a seat.”

As she did, Iris opened the handbag she’d carried in, took out a red case, a circular silver dish with a red top. “We’re in a private home,” she began as she opened the case and took out an herbal cigarette. “So no laws broken. I hope you’ll take that hell of a day into consideration and indulge me.”

“Go ahead.”

She flicked on the silver lighter, drew in, and on a kind of sigh expressed a stream of smoke that smelled—just a little—like Mira’s tea.

“I’ve quit countless times. Truly believed I’d beaten the habit this time. Two years, three months, six days. But then Gio.” She inhaled again. “And now learning, almost worse, that Potter’s still alive and responsible for Gio’s death. It’s crushing. I’m not easily crushed.”

She offered Peabody a charming smile as she took the martini glass. “Thank you so much.”

She opened the lid on the dish, flicked ashes into it. Then sipped delicately at the martini.

“I may feel human again before we’re done. How can I help you? Because I promise you, I’ll do whatever I can to help you toss that murdering bastard back in a cell.”

“You worked closely with Potter.”

“I did. We all did. It’s lowering to know that he deceived me. I considered myself, and still do, an excellent judge of character.” She sipped again. “He was a very large miss.”

“How did you become part of The Twelve?”

“Ah. Let me begin by saying I had a very comfortable childhood. A very pretty childhood. I was very pretty, which adds to it. Some would say spoiled, and I won’t disagree. Clouds began to gather. Rumblings of thunder, lightning strikes. Most of this, I remained blissfully unaware of. Then, in a finger snap, the storm broke and I was shipped off to boarding school in the countryside. To safety. I quite detested it.”

Taking a long drag, she settled back. “But I began to see and to hear and to pay attention. Some of the other girls had friends or family in the fight. And some lost friends and family. Then, for me, there was a boy. A sweet boy. Not my first kiss, but the first that mattered. He had such strong beliefs about what was right, what was just. When we weren’t sneaking off to snog, which we did as often as possible, we talked and talked.”

She took another drag, expelled smoke slowly.

“His worldview opened mine. We gave ourselves to each other, fumbling at it, so sweetly, the night before he left for London to fight. He was bound and determined to go, to help restore order and balance.”

After one last drag, she stubbed out the cigarette in the little dish. “He was killed less than two weeks later. Barely eighteen.”

“What was his name?”

Iris looked up, eyes full of emotion. “How kind of you to ask. John Charles Brooke. Johnny. I decided tears, and mine were copious, weren’t enough. I returned to London over my parents’ strong objections. But I had turned eighteen and come into the first of my trust. They couldn’t stop me. I knew I couldn’t fight. The only thing I’d ever shot were clay pigeons—though I was quite good at that. And the London I came back to wasn’t the London I’d left.

“The violence, the anger, the restrictions. But of course, there were still places of privilege, parties, gatherings, indulgence. I thought to use that, my place there, to somehow get a sense of things. What was real, what wasn’t. Then there was Marjorie.”

Iris lifted her glass in a half toast before she drank. “We knew each other a little. We’d met at a party when my parents brought me back for Christmas. So we renewed our acquaintance. Became friends. I had no sense she was feeling me out, but clearly there was enough of Johnny still in my mind and heart that she sensed my willingness, my allegiances. She introduced me to Ivanna at a party. You could have called our conversations, our teas, our luncheons job interviews. I told them about Johnny, and at some point said I wished there was something I could do to help.

“They told me how I could, if I was willing to train, to work, sacrifice, and risk. Not yet nineteen?” Iris laughed. “Of course I was willing. Some of the training was brutal. Hand-to-hand? The delicate ballerina put me down more times than I can count. But primarily, my work was intelligence. And for that, I only had to be what everyone thought I was, what I had been, a spoiled, wealthy party girl, much more concerned about the style of her hair than the state of the world.”

She leaned forward. “I was good at it. Bloody brilliant at it. And when I became part of The Twelve, I had something I never knew I needed. Real purpose. It wasn’t just a team for me, it was family. We did important work, we made a difference. We saved lives. But there was a Judas among us. Working with us, eating and drinking with us.”

“Tell me about Potter, specifically.”

“Sharp. Edgy with it, but sharp. I learned from him, and that still disturbs me. He’d worked in intelligence, so he worked on my skills. He considered me a whore. He didn’t say it plainly, but a girl knows. A useful whore. He thought of war as a man’s job. But spying, deceit, whoring—useful women’s work. He was family. You don’t always like all your family. But he taught me well. I trusted him.”

She paused a moment to think. “He liked things tidy, and would become annoyed if something was out of place. I tended to kick my shoes off if I came into HQ after a party or assignation. He hated that. He seemed fond of Ivan. I can’t say if that was genuine, but he’d often go into the lab with Ivan. He was very dismissive of Cyril, carefully dismissive, but he clearly didn’t care to work closely with Cyril.”

“Because he’s gay,” Peabody said.

“Yes. Which seemed counterintuitive, as we were fighting to restore rights for all. I always felt he saw Summerset as, not an enemy, but a competitor. Next to Sylvester, Summerset had the most diverse skill set. The medical knowledge, which was invaluable, but also weaponry, combat, strategy, tactics. He could assist in the cyber work, if necessary. And he certainly knew how to gather intelligence.

“If anything had happened to Sly, it would’ve been Summerset put in charge of the unit. And that, I believe, was a problem for Potter. He would see himself in command.

“Then there was Alice.” Iris laid a hand on her heart. “I loved her. You had to love her. Potter—not love, but desire. And desire not just for herself, but because she loved and was loved by his competitor.”

“Did that ever come to a head?”

“If it did, it was away from HQ. I’d say his desire for her cooled considerably when she became pregnant. During that time Alice was off field duty. She worked in HQ or remotely. Then after the birth, she was on leave, tucked safely away with the baby through the winter. She’d only been back a few weeks when we began to plan the mission that would kill her.”

“Did you spend time with Potter outside of HQ?”

“During training, yes. Then, of course, we might be teamed up on a mission.”

“He had a sweet tooth.”

“That’s right! I’d forgotten that. The candy… Fry’s.”

“Peppermint Cream.”

“Yes, that’s the one. For all his complaints about British food, he loved that candy. Oh, he disliked cats in particular. Didn’t care for dogs, but actively disliked cats. We had one in HQ for a while, a kind of mascot. I always believed he disposed of it. He never talked about his family. The rest of us did from time to time. Gio and Leroy had wives and children. Ivanna had her boys. I remember Potter saying he considered wives and children a distraction. One couldn’t afford distractions in war. And someone said—who was it?—Alice, yes, Alice. She said, ‘What do we fight for if not who we love and those who come after us?’”

“What did he say?”

Iris polished off her martini. “He said: ‘We fight to win.’”

When Eve let Iris go, she went to the friggie. She pulled out tubes. Pepsi for herself, the diet sort for Peabody.

“We’re down to mostly corroboration.”

“That last bit?” Peabody cracked her tube. “I thought that was interesting.”

“‘We fight to win’? Fits his profile, fits the picture we’re putting together. We need it, we need all of it. But it’s not getting us closer.”

“Somebody says every detail matters.”

“Yeah. They do.” Eve chugged some Pepsi. “A lot of frigging details, and nothing yet that points to where he is or what he looks like.”

Eve took another chug as Summerset walked in.

“Lieutenant, Detective. I realize you’re putting in a great deal of time and effort. I would only remind you that we have a number of guests who traveled considerable distances today. I’d like to serve dinner in an hour or so.

“You’re, of course, welcome, Detective.”

“Thanks, but McNab’s expecting me.”

“I’ve got work, and I’ll need Roarke. Sit down. This shouldn’t take long.”

“Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine.” He looked at Eve. “I don’t know what more I can tell you.”

“We’re going to find out. I’ve got a list of personality traits, habits, likes, dislikes mined from… our guests. Let’s see if this sparks any more.”

Though she didn’t need them, she glanced at her notes.

“A bigot, homophobic, misogynist, organized, intelligent, skilled, dislikes cats, not fond of dogs, demands things stay tidy and in place. Likes the finer things, high-end clothes, French food, Fry’s Peppermint Cream.”

“How could I have forgotten the candy,” Summerset murmured. “He was literally never without it. Three sugars in his tea. No matter how short we were on it.”

“So add selfish?”

“I suppose you could.”

“He spent time with Harry outside HQ, learning Harry’s… trade.”

“Yes, that’s true. But we all tried to learn from each other. He spent time with Ivan in his lab, and so did I. I don’t recall Potter spending time with me in my section.”

“He considered you the competition.”

“Did he?” Summerset’s eyebrows lifted. “I suppose that’s possible. I would have said while we didn’t have any real fondness for each other, we respected each other. I would have been wrong.”

“He liked a good, close shave.”

“Ah yes, the barber near Piccadilly Circus. Some of the lesser royals were said to frequent it.”

“A barber? Not a salon.”

“Yes. He told an asset about the barber. I was shadowing them, Potter was working the asset. He mentioned the barber, said not to cheap out, to ask for the full hot shave. Yes, buildings bombed or on fire, people weeping for loved ones, and he never missed a shave. Clothes always neatly pressed. Candy in his pocket, sugar in his tea.”

She could see him thinking, remembering.

“What else?”

“He used a bootmaker. Leroy admired his boots once. Potter said he had to find another bootmaker, as his had been bombed out a few weeks before. I believe he dyed his hair.”

As he spoke, Summerset tapped a long finger on the table. “There was some gray in it—just a few strands—then there wasn’t. He used face cream. Moisturizer. I saw a jar once, and thought it odd and amusing that a man who prided himself on his machismo would use what many still considered a female product.”

“So we include vanity. A desire to hold on to his looks, his youth.”

“He worked out rigorously and routinely. He was very fit, very strong, and very aware of his exceptional build.”

“Is that why you didn’t take him on?”

“Excuse me?”

“When he moved on your wife.” Because he had, Eve was sure of it.

Summerset gave Eve one long stare, and when she didn’t blink, inclined his head. “Alice had handled that situation, and I respected her ability to do so.”

“But?”

“I had a word with him.”

“Which word?”

“Lieutenant, you are relentless. It can hardly apply—”

“Details matter. And I bet it’s a detail Potter remembers.”

“Very well. I waited until he was in the shower, then I went in, took his cock in hand, twisted, and sent him to his knees. While he gasped, I told him if he put hands on her again, Alice would surely send him off limping. But there were ways to break what I twisted in my hand, and I’d add that broken cock to his bruised balls.

“Then I left him on his knees with the water running down his face. We never spoke of it again. I’m not proud of it.”

“I would be.” Peabody shot him double thumbs-up. “Mag move.”

“You humiliated him. Bested and humiliated him,” Eve added. “He’ll have something special planned for you.”

In his Summerset way, he looked down his nose. “I trust you’ll see he’s disappointed.”

“That’s the plan. If you leave this house before I say go, I won’t take your cock in hand. But I will kick every square inch of your bony ass.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. An agent from Interpol should soon be scooping up the doctor who helped Potter escape. He may know something. I doubt it, but it’s another piece. I know him now, so we work from there. We work the details. One of those details not yet confirmed is the DNA. I know he’s alive, but that’s the proof.”

“You think he posed as the driver. That he’s the one who picked Gio up, who showed your card to the camera.”

“I know he was.”

“Lieutenant, could I see that image again?”

“Peabody.”

“Bringing it on-screen.”

Summerset rose, walked closer to study the image. “We were all trained, and well, on the art of disguise. But this? This man is in his fifties. Even with face work, even with expert makeup, you can’t drop a quarter century, not face-to-face. And Gio was face-to-face.”

“We’re working on that.”

“I wish you, sincerely, good luck. Are we done?”

“For now.”

He walked to the door, turned back. “Thank you, both, for your service.”

Then walked away.