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It was probably shallow, it was definitely girlie to have gotten such a rise out of watching that ripple of muscle. Eve told herself she wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t stirred her up in the first place.
“Peabody, bring me a cup of that.”
She went behind her desk, called up the Draco file, and separating it into suspects, witnesses, evidence gathered, and lab reports, ordered all data on the screens.
“I reviewed the disc of the play last night,” she began when she heard the sturdy clop of Peabody’s hard-soled cop shoes cross the room. “I have a theory.”
“Your coffee, Lieutenant. Shall I record, sir?”
“Huh?” Eve was studying the screens, trying to shift and rearrange data in her mind. But Peabody’s stiff tone distracted her. “No, I’m just running it by you.”
She turned back and saw that once again Roarke was right. Something was up with her aide. She ordered herself not to poke into the personal, and sat. “We’ve pretty well nailed down the time of the switch. The prop knife is clearly visible here. Computer, Visual Evidence 6-B, on screen five.”
“You’ve marked and recorded this VE?” Peabody asked, her voice cold as February.
“Last night, after my review.” Eve moved her shoulders. The snipe was like a hot itch between her shoulder blades. “So?”
“Just updating my own records, Lieutenant. It is my job.”
Fuck it. “Nobody’s telling you not to do your job. I’m briefing you, aren’t I?”
“Selectively, it appears.”
“Okay, what the hell does that mean?”
“I had occasion to return to Central last night.” That just added to her slow burn. “In the process of reviewing the file, assimilating evidence and the time line, certain pieces of that evidence, marked and sealed for Level Five, came to my attention. I was unaware, until that point, that there were areas of this investigation considered off limits to your aide and your team. Respectfully, sir, this policy can and will hamper the efficiency of said aide and said team.”
“Don’t use that snotty tone on me, pal. I marked Level Five what, in my judgment, required Level Five. You don’t need to know every goddamn thing.”
Little spots of heat bloomed on Peabody’s cheeks, but her voice was frosty. “So I am now aware, Lieutenant.”
“I said knock it off.”
“It’s always your way, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, damn right. I’m your superior, and I’m the primary on this investigation, so you bet your tight ass it’s my way.”
“Then you should have advised subject Monroe, Charles, to keep his mouth shut. Shouldn’t you? Sir.”
Eve set her teeth, ground them. Try to spare feelings, she thought, and you get kicked in the face. “Subject Monroe, Charles, has, in my opinion, no connection to this investigation. Therefore any communication I’ve had with him is none of your goddamn business.”
“It’s my goddamn business when you interrogate him over my goddamn personal relationship with him.”
“I didn’t interrogate him.” Her voice spiked with frustrated fury. “He spilled it all over me.”
They were both standing now, leaning over the desk nearly nose-to-nose. Eve’s face was pale with temper, Peabody’s flushed with it.
When McNab walked in, the scene had him letting out a low, nervous whistle. “Um, hey, guys.”
Neither of them bothered to so much as glance in his direction, and said, in unison, at a roar: “Out!”
“You bet. I’m gone.”
To insure it, Eve marched over and slammed the door in his fearful and fascinated face.
“Sit down,” she ordered Peabody.
“I prefer to stand.”
