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“She’s an artist.” Tressa stopped Wyatt’s protest with a hot look. “Finding Edward’s more important than pretenses. She’s young. I don’t know her name. I really do try to stay out of it. Aiden can find out.”
“It’s okay. I’ve got that one already. And, surprise, there’s been no media bulletin. Detective Hanson will follow up.” Eve got to her feet. “He’s leading the missing persons investigation. If you have any more information, you can contact him or me.”
“Is there anything we can do in the meantime?”
“Find out the name of the Realtor,” Eve suggested. “Thanks for your time.”
4
They wound their way out.
“You don’t want a look at his appointment book, his calendar?” Peabody asked.
“The place is thick with lawyers. We’re not getting a look at anything without a warrant. Once it’s murder, I’ll get one. Hanson has to run his angle from here—so send him the name of the driver and the former Realtor. We’ll talk to the list of women, his son and daughter,” she began, checking the time. “Later. This took longer than I planned.”
“We’re heading in? We’re not going to miss Trueheart?”
“We’re heading in.”
“Yay!”
“Hold the yay. Impressions, observations, conclusions,” Eve said as they rode down.
“The whole place is big on status, and that sort of thing usually comes from the top. I thought places like this—political think tanks, activists, and the like—would be lower key, even a little sweaty. I didn’t get any vibe from either of them, or Aiden, at least not this time around. MacDonald seemed genuinely worried. Book, not so much.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I’d say Book doesn’t care as much about the senator, not personally. What? You don’t think that’s it?”
“Might be, part of it anyway. I figure Book thinks the senator’s off snuggled up with the young artist or some other sidepiece. That plays for him more than any kind of abduction.”
For sentiment as much as warmth Eve pulled on the snowflake hat as they crossed the lobby. “MacDonald had a strong point. Back when he was a judge, then a senator, he likely had a serious enemies list. He was a hard-liner on the bench and in Congress and kept himself in the spotlight pushing agendas. He still goes on those political talk shows and sort of raves about anything he disagrees with. Government spending’s high on the list and he goes off on a lot of social programs. During his last term he went hard after professional parenthood, had all these figures on what it would save the government to gut the law, and how his wife was honored to be a stay-at-home mother when their children came along, and never took a dime of government money for it.”
“Did anyone point out his wife was rolling in it, and I bet my ass and yours had a staff?”
“Yeah, that sort of thing, and the fact that the Professional Parent Act is about as popular as they get, is why his numbers tanked. The pundits figure he opted not to run because he couldn’t win.”
“The pundits.”
Peabody shrugged, all but buried her chin in the folds of her scarf. “Sometimes I watch when I’m crafting. McNab doesn’t mind because if they have someone like Senator Horseshit on there, or Congresswoman Vidali—you know about her?”
“I don’t, and don’t want to.”
“Well, she’s such a liar, and a hypocrite. I hate when people like that start in on how God wants them to whatever, like they have some secret handshake with God the rest of us don’t know about. It gets me pretty worked up. Then we have hot sex.”
Eve’s eye wanted to twitch, but she willed it away. “You and Vidali.”
Peabody snickered. “Oh yeah, we’re all over each other. But seriously, mostly I’d like to punch her. I’ll think: Man, I’d like to punch you right in your lying face. So I jump McNab instead. It works for us.”
Eve thought of the scarf she was wearing, and wondered how many times Peabody had jumped McNab during the making thereof. She decided never to think about it again. Ever.
She got in the car, shot into a skinny gap in traffic, and let horns blast in her wake.
“We’ll take ten after the ceremony, then it’s back in street clothes. I want to talk to the artist first.”
“In her twenties, right? That’s just icky—and I’m not an age bigot.”
“What do the pundits say?”
