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“You have hair. Be satisfied with that.”
“Hat hair,” Peabody muttered, raking her hands through it, shaking her head, fluffing and pushing as they got in the elevator.
“Stop! Stop being a girl. Jesus, that’s annoying. If I had a partner without tits, there would be no hair obsessing.”
“Baxter would combat hat hair before an interview.”
Because it was inarguably true, Eve only scowled. “He doesn’t count.”
“And there’s Miniki. He—”
“Keep it up, and I’ll tie you down and shave you bald. You won’t ever suffer the pain and embarrassment of hat hair again.”
Eve strode out of the elevator, followed the numbers to Cal Marshall’s apartment.
“Do I still take the lead?” Peabody asked, meekly.
Eve sent her a withering look, then knocked. When the door opened, she shifted slightly to the side so that Peabody had the front ground.
“Mr. Marshall? I’m Detective Peabody. We spoke earlier. This is my partner, Lieutenant Dallas. May we come in?”
“Yeah. Sure. Yeah.”
He was blond, tanned, fit, with eyes the blue of an arctic lake. They looked a little hollow now, a little dull, and his voice held the same tone. “About Sari. It’s about Sari.”
“Why don’t we sit down?”
“What? Yeah, we should sit.”
Through an open door, Eve spotted the bed—made—with a large duffle tossed on it. There was a snowboard tipped against the wall. In the living area, a heavy ski coat was draped over a chair, the lift pass still clipped on it.
On the molded black table in front of the dark blue gel sofa were several empty bottles of beer.
Came in, Eve mused, tossed down his gear, checked his ’link messages. Got the word. Sat here and drank most of the night.
“I heard. I got home and heard—” He rubbed at his eyes. “Um, Bale—he heard from Zela. She works with Sari at the club. She told him…he told me.”
“It must’ve been a shock,” Peabody said. “That was the first you heard of her death? You didn’t have your pocket ’link, or see any reports while you were gone?”
“I shut down my ’link. Just wanted to board. It was all about boarding. Me and Bale went out to Colorado. Incommunicado Colorado. Big joke,” he said. “Shuttled back last night. Bale, he’s closer to the station, got home first. Zela left him a message. Zela talked to him. He called. I got home, and he…”
“You and Sarifina were involved.”
“We were…we were together until a couple of weeks ago.” He scrubbed both hands over his face. “A couple of weeks…We broke up.”
“Why did you break up?”
“She was always too busy. She was always…” He trailed off, lifted his gaze to Peabody’s. “I wanted more, okay? I wanted her more available, more interested in what I wanted to do when I wanted to do it. It wasn’t working out, not the way I wanted it. So I said I was done with it. With her.”
“You argued.”
“Yeah. We both got pretty harsh. She said I was selfish, immature, self-involved. I said something like, ‘Right back at you.’ Shit, shit, shit. She’s dead. Bale said…I was snowboarding and trashing her to Bale. And she was dead. You think I hurt her? I wanted to hurt her. Here,” he said, thumping a fist to his heart. “I wanted her to feel crappy that I flipped her, you know? I wanted her to be lonely and miserable while I found somebody—lots of somebodies—who knew how to have a good time. Christ.”
He dropped his head in his hands. “Oh, my Christ.”
“We don’t think you hurt her, Mr. Marshall. Before you broke up, did she stay here with you?”
“Less and less. Things were disintegrating. We barely saw each other. Once or twice a week maybe.”
