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“Saved, so to speak, by the bell.”
“We’ll get back to this,” she warned him.
“I sincerely hope not.”
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant Dallas? Stefanie Finch. You’ve been trying to reach me?”
“That’s right. Where are you located?”
“Just got back to New York. Had the last couple runs cancelled. What can I do for you?”
“We need to have a conversation, Ms. Finch. In person. I can be there in twenty minutes.”
“Hey, listen. I just walked in the door. Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”
“Twenty minutes,” Eve repeated. “Stay available.”
She cut Stefanie off on an oath, snagged her weapon harness. “You happen to own Inter-Commuter Air?”
He was scanning the data on-screen and didn’t look over. “No. Their equipment’s old and will cost ten to fifteen hundred million to replace and/or repair. They’re operating in the red, and have been for the last three years. Poor customer service record that’s heading for a PR nightmare. They’ll be finished in a year, eighteen months on the outside.” He glanced over now. “Then I’ll buy them.”
“You wait till they roll over dead.” She pursed her lips. “Good plan, but it nixes the idea of taking you along so you can put the elbow on an employee. I’ll tag Peabody. The uniform’s always a nice touch.”
“Agreed, and so’s that robe. But you might want to put your boots back on.”
She frowned down at herself. “Shit.” She grabbed the boots and trotted out. “See you later.”
Stefanie didn’t pretend to be pleased. She opened the door and led with a scowl. “ID,” she snapped.
Eve flipped open her badge, holding it out while Stefanie took a good, long look. “I’ve heard about you. The cop who hooked Roarke. Nice job.”
“Gee, thanks. I’ll let him know you said so.”
Stefanie merely jerked a thumb toward Peabody. “What’s with the uniform?”
“My aide. Do we come in, Stefanie, or do we discuss this in the hallway?”
Stefanie stepped back, closed the door behind them. “I just had two lucrative runs cancelled, my union rep is talking strike, which is going to put me in a bind. The shuttle they stuck me with should’ve been in the fucking scrap heap, and my gut’s telling me I could be out of a job within the year.”
“He never misses,” Eve muttered.
“I’ve got a cop hounding me to Europe and back, so I’m in a pisser of a mood, Lieutenant. If this is about my bastard ex, I’ve got one thing to say: He’s not my problem.”
“I’m not here about your bastard ex. You’ve been corresponding, via e-mail, with an individual who calls himself Wordsworth.”
“How do you know? E-mail’s private.”
“The individual who calls himself Wordsworth is a suspect in two murders and one attempted murder. Now, do you want to do a dance about the violation of cyber-privacy?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Peabody, look at my face. Is this my jokey face?”
“No, sir, Lieutenant.”
“Now that we’ve cleared that up, why don’t we sit down?”
