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He hadn’t moved, not a muscle. Trivane continued to sit, staring at the photos of the dead. When Feeney opened the door, a uniform behind him, Eve nodded. “Book her,” she ordered. “Verbal threat and resisting.”
Selina staggered as Eve passed her to the uniform. But her eyes cleared and fixed on Eve’s face with bubbling malice. She began to speak softly, in a chant that rose and fell almost musically. She swiveled her head, looking over her shoulder as the uniform took her out.
Eve dabbed fingers on her throat, disgusted when they came away smeared with blood. “Did you catch what she was saying there?”
Feeney took out a handkerchief, handed it to her. “Sounded like Latin, bastardized some. My mother made me learn when I was a kid. Had delusions about me becoming a priest.”
“See if you can make any of it out from the record. We may be able to add to the charges. Shit, this burns. Interview is concluded,” she added and logged the time and date. “Trivane, you want to talk to me?”
“What?” He looked over, swallowed, shook his head. “I’ll see my client, Lieutenant, as soon as she’s booked. These charges won’t hold.”
Eve held out her bloody fingers. “Oh, I think they will. Take a good look, Louis.” She stepped closer, jammed her fingers under his nose. “It could be yours next time.”
“I’ll see my client,” he repeated, and his face was still white as death as he hurried from the room.
“That bitch is loony,” Feeney commented.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
“She hates your ever fucking guts,” he said pleasantly, happy to be in tandem again. “But you knew that, too. Put the hoodoo on you.”
“Huh?”
“Cursed you.” He winked at her. “Let me know if you start getting stomach cramps. You’re starting to get to her.”
“Not enough,” Eve murmured. “But my money’s on the lawyer. Let’s keep a man on him, Feeney. I don’t want him ending up dead before he breaks. It was the way he looked at the shot of Lobar. Shock, then something like recognition.” She shook her head. “Let’s not lose him.” She glanced at her watch, hummed with satisfaction. “Just in time to make my nooner with Nadine.”
“You want to have that neck looked after. Nasty.”
“Later.” She headed out, moving fast. Nadine wouldn’t miss the injury. Nor, Eve thought, would the all-seeing eye of the camera.
“What the hell happened to you?” Nadine demanded. She stopped pacing, stopped looking at her watch.
“Little problem in Interview.”
“You cut it close, Dallas, we got two minutes before air. You don’t have time to clean up.”
“Fine, we’ll go like we are.”
“Get a voice and light level,” Nadine told her camera operator. She took out a mirrored compact, polishing up her face when she sat. “Looks like female,” she added. “Long, nasty nails
, four separate grooves.”
“Yeah.” Eve patted the already stained handkerchief against the wound. “Somebody was curious, they could check booking, get the data.”
Nadine’s eyes went sharp. “I imagine someone could,” she purred. “You didn’t do anything with your hair.”
“I cut it.”
“I meant anything constructive. Coming up in thirty. Set, Suzanna?”
The operator made a circle of forefinger and thumb. “The fresh blood shows up real good. Nice touch.”
“Gee, thanks.” Eve settled back, hooked one booted foot over her knee. “Let’s keep this short, Nadine. I haven’t seen yours yet.”
“Here’s a preview then. What local white witch is the son of infamous mass murderer David Baines Conroy, who is currently doing five separate life stretches, no parole options, in maximum lockup on Penal Station Omega?”
“Who—”
