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“Orders?” he continued, bitterness spewing out and scalding her. “Fucking orders? Is that your line, Dallas? Is that your reason for treating me like some lame rookie? ‘Take a vacation, Feeney. Use my rich husband’s fancy house in Mexico.’” His lips peeled back in a sneer. “That would have been fine for you, wouldn’t it? Get me out of your way, shuffle me off and out from underfoot because I’m useless to you on this one.”
“No. God, Feeney—”
“I’ve gone through doors with you.” His voice was abruptly quiet, and made her throat burn. “I trusted you. I’d have put my back up against yours anytime, anyplace. But no more. You’re good, Dallas, but you’re cold. The hell with you.”
She said nothing when he walked out, leaving her door swinging open. Could say nothing. He’d nailed it, she decided. And he’d nailed her.
“Dallas.” Peabody rushed the door. “I couldn’t—”
Eve cut her off, simply lifting a finger, turning her back. Slowly, with slow even breaths, she pulled her guts back in. Even then, they ached. She could still smell him in the room. That stupid cologne his wife always bought him.
“We’re going to do a follow-up sweep of Wineburg’s townhouse. Get your gear.”
Peabody opened her mouth, closed it again. Even if she’d known what to say, she didn’t imagine it would be welcome. “Yes, sir.”
Eve turned back. Her eyes were blank, cool, composed. “Then let’s move.”
chapter thirteen
She was in a pisser of a mood by the time she got home. She’d turned Wineburg’s townhouse inside out, reworking every step already taken by the sweepers. For three hours she and Peabody had searched closets and drawers, run logs, and traced ’link records.
She found two dozen all-but-identical dark suits, shoes so glossy she’d seen her own scowl reflected in the tips, an incredibly boring collection of music discs. Though he’d had a lock box, the contents hadn’t been very illuminating. Two thousand in cash, another ten in credits, and an extensive collection of hard-core pornographic videos might have given some insight into the man, but no solid leads toward his killer.
He’d kept no personal diary, and his appointment book listed times and dates and very little about the content of any meeting, personal or professional. His financial records were ordered and precise, as one might expect from a man who dealt with money as an occupation. All expenses and income were carefully logged. Though the large and regular bimonthly withdrawals from credi
t into cash over the last two-year period of Wineburg’s fussy life gave Eve a solid notion just how Selina managed to live so well, the withdrawals were all logged under personal expenses.
The consistency of late-night appointments over the last two years, again bimonthly and always on the same date as the personal cash withdrawal, wasn’t enough to establish a solid connection with Selina Cross’s cult.
The lady herself was never mentioned.
He’d been divorced, childless, and he’d lived alone.
So she knocked on doors, talked to neighbors. Eve learned Wineburg hadn’t been the sociable sort. He’d rarely had visitors, and none of his neighbors had been curious enough or would admit to paying close enough attention to any of those rare visitors to give a description.
She came away with nothing but a raw feeling in the gut and a mounting sense of frustration. She knew, without a doubt, that Wineburg had been part of Cross’s cult, that he’d paid heavily, first monetarily and then with his life, for the privilege. But she was no closer to proving it, and her mind wasn’t as focused on the business at hand as it should have been.
When she headed home, alone, Feeney’s angry face and bitter words played back in her head, and frustration slammed up hard against misery.
She’d more than let him down, she knew. She had betrayed him by doing precisely what he had helped train her to do. She’d followed orders, she’d been a cop. She’d done her job.
But she hadn’t been a friend, she thought, as her temples throbbed with stress. She’d weighed her loyalties, and in the end had chosen the job over the heart.
Cold, he’d called her, she remembered and squeezed her eyes shut. And cold she had been.
The cat padded to her the moment Eve stepped in the door, winding around her legs as she stepped into the foyer. She kept walking, cursing lightly when he tripped her. Summerset slipped out of a doorway.
“Roarke has been trying to reach you.”
“Yeah? Well, I’ve been busy.” She nudged Galahad away impatiently with her foot. “Is he here?”
“Not as yet. You might reach him at his office.”
“I’ll talk to him when he gets home.” She wanted a drink, something strong and mind-misting. Recognizing the danger and the weakness of that crutch, she turned away from the parlor and walked in the opposite direction. “I’m not here to anybody else. Get it?”
“Certainly,” Summerset said stiffly.
As she strode away, Summerset bent and picked up the cat to stroke—something he never would have done had anyone been around to observe. “The lieutenant is very unhappy,” Summerset murmured. “Perhaps we should make a call.”
