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“Always.”
When they were in her vehicle, Roarke turned to her. “You think she was taken.”
She thought of the pretty, cheerful blonde, the way she’d talked about looking forward to Mavis’s shower. “I see no reason for her to walk. I can’t jump to abduction or foul play from there, but yeah, that’s the way it feels.”
“If you give Mavis a little time to calm down, I think she’d be satisfied if Missing Persons took this over, and you simply stayed in the loop.”
“You didn’t see her, you didn’t hear her.” Resigned to it now, Eve shook her head. “And besides that—which is plenty—I told her I’d do it. All I have to do is convince MPU to leave it with me, then convince Whitney I can take this on without it infringing on the investigation I’ve already got going.”
He brushed a hand over her hair. “You might want to convince yourself of that first.”
She smiled thinly. “Working on it.”
13
AT CENTRAL, SHE SPLIT OFF FROM ROARKE, asking him to go straight to Homicide and wait for her in her office while she arrowed off to MPU.
“I may need to offer whoever I deal with on this an incentive,” she told him.
He cocked his head and those wonderful lips curved in an easy smile. “You mean a bribe.”
“Bribe’s such a strong word. Yeah, I may need a bribe. Sports or booze, probably. Those are the usual hot tickets. I’ll keep it within reason.”
“Bribing cops not to do work is a time-honored tradition.”
“Hey.”
He laughed. “Do what you need to do, Lieutenant. I’ll be in your office.”
She didn’t know who might have caught weekend duty, or who might be at a desk, but she hoped it was someone she had at least a passing and cordial relationship with.
Otherwise, she’d have to start from scratch with whoever had the weekend command—and if things got sticky, and an incentive didn’t make the cut, she’d go straight to Whitney. But that was something she hoped to avoid.
She figured she lucked out when she spotted Lieutenant Jaye Smith grabbing wha
t looked like an energy bar at Vending.
“Smith.”
“Hey, Dallas. Caught a Saturday tour, too?”
“Not exactly.” Eve dug credits out of her pocket. “Grab me a tube of Pepsi, will you?”
“Sure. It’s on me.”
“Thanks.”
“Great coat. Hell for leather, huh?”
“You could say. Thanks,” Eve repeated when Smith offered the tube. “You got a minute for me?”
“Sure. Want the lounge or the office?”
“Let’s take your office.”
“Business, then.” With a nod, Smith led the way.
She was near fifty, Eve remembered, and had better than a quarter century on the job. Married with a kid, maybe two. She was on the short side, about five-three with a boxer’s kind of build. Tough and muscular. Her hair was many shades of blonde, and worn straight with shaggy ends that swung past her jaw.
