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“I’ll continue to study the data. Run an analysis. I wish I could do more.”
Her desk ’link beeped, and she was out of the chair like a woman on springs. “Excuse me.”
Eve was surprised to see the dignified Mira scramble around the desk.
“Yes? Oh, Anthony, is—”
“It’s a boy. Eight pounds, five ounces, twenty-one perfect inches.”
“Oh. Oh.” Mira’s eyes swam as she lowered herself into a chair. “Deborah?”
“She’s great. She’s fine. They’re beautiful. Have a look.”
Eve shifted, angling her head enough so that she could see a dark-haired man hold up a wriggling, red, squalling baby.
“Say hello to Matthew James Mira, Grandma.”
“Hello, Matthew. He has your nose, Anthony. He’s gorgeous. I’ll come by to see you all as soon as I can. I can’t wait to hold him. Have you called your father?”
“He’s next.”
“We’ll be over tonight.” She ran a finger over the screen as if stroking the baby’s head. “Tell Deborah we love her. And we’re so proud of her.”
“Hey, how about me?”
“And you.” She kissed her fingertips, laid them on the screen. “I’ll see you all soon.”
“I’ll call Dad. You have a good cry.”
“I will.” She dug out a handkerchief even as she ended transmission. “Sorry. A new grandchild.”
“Congratulations, he looked . . .” Like a red, wrinkled fish with limbs, Eve thought, but figured that wasn’t the thing people wanted to hear at such moments. “. . . healthy.”
“Yes.” Mira sighed, dabbed at her eyes. “There’s nothing like a new life coming into the world to remind us why we’re here. The hope and the possibilities.”
Eight pounds, was all Eve could think. It must be like passing an arena ball with limbs. She got to her feet. “You’ll want to get out of here. I’ll just—”
Her communicator signaled. “Dallas.”
“Sir.” Peabody’s face, sober and stern, filled the little screen. “We have another homicide, same MO. Private residence in this case. Upper East Side.”
“Meet me in the garage. I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir. I ran the address through. The residence is owned by Elite Real Estate, a Roarke Industries division.”
chapter eight
It was a lovely brownstone in a neighborhood known for its high rents, swank restaurants, and fancy, specialized markets. Sumptuous white flowers shimmered on long pink stems in a trio of slim stone pots on the front steps.
A few blocks south, and those pots would have been lucky to stay put and intact overnight.
But here, people lived comfortably, privately, and didn’t stoop to vandalizing their neighbors’ homes. Security was ensured by the addition, at residents’ expense, of private droids who patrolled on foot in snappy navy blue uniforms. This precaution tended to keep the riff and raff from outside the area from sneaking in and soiling the sidewalks.
Jonah Talbot had enjoyed that comfortable security in his two-story home where he had lived alone. And there he had died, but it hadn’t been comfortable.
Eve stood over him. He’d been a well-built male in his early thirties. He’d been beaten, as had Darlene French, primarily around the face. There was additional bruising around the kidney area and the ribs. He wore only a gray T-shirt. The matching athletic shorts were tossed into a corner. He’d been sodomized.
His killer had left him facedown, with the silver wire crossed at the back of his neck, curled up into loops at the edges.
