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She engaged her ’link, put through to Baxter’s home. When she hit voice mail, she ordered a transfer to his mobile.
She heard music first, something low and bluesy that said sexual foreplay to her. Baxter’s face came on with dim lighting in the background.
“This better be damn good.”
“My home office, tomorrow, eight hundred hours.”
“I’m not on the roll till Monday. I’ve got—”
“You are now. Tag your boy, too.”
“Give me a break, Dallas. I’ve got a clear field and a hot brunette on tap.”
“Then you’d better turn her on full tonight, because you’re here at eight. How much do you want to close the Custer case, Baxter?”
The irritated scowl vanished. “You got something there?”
“Hotter than any brunette who’d give you a clear field. Eight hundred. If you’ve got any personal notes not in the murder book, bring them.”
“Give me a goddamn hint, will you?”
“Strangers on a Train. Look it up.” She clicked off, contacted Peabody, then Feeney.
“Sounds like we’ll need the standard cop breakfast buffet,” Roarke decided. “And a Saturday one at that.”
“You don’t have to feed them. I want Mira, too,” she considered. “I’d like her take on the suspect profiles.” She glanced at her wrist unit. “It’s not really all that late.”
“While you’re interrupting the Miras’ evening, send me the file. I’ll poke into the financials.”
She frowned at him. “It’s still open and active. Yeah, you could do that. And I can order the full search on the electronics. When you do the financials, see if anything pops back a ways that points toward Suzanne Custer buying the sex aids.”
After copying and sending the file, Eve stared at her ’link. It wasn’t really that late, she reminded herself. But she had sex aids on the brain, and that nudged her into thinking how the Miras might be spending their night together. “Jesus, way to wig myself out.”
She hedged, and ordered the transmission to go straight to voice mail. “Dr. Mira, I didn’t want to disturb your evening. I’ve got something on the Anders case, a strong possibility of a connection with a previous homicide that’s still open and active. I realize tomorrow’s Saturday—” Or she did now that Roarke had mentioned it. “But I have a team meeting at my home office tomorrow at eight—”
“Eve?”
“Oh, hey.” There was music again. It wasn’t porn vid music, thank God, but it spoke of an intimate evening at home to Eve. “Sorry to bother you when you’re…whatever. I have something I’d like to pull you in on. I’ve set a meeting at my home office in the morning, if your schedule—”
“What time?”
“Eight hundred.”
“I can make that. I’ll be there. Do you want me to study anything in the meantime?”
“I’d actually like you to come into this fresh.”
“Fine.” Mira glanced away, laughed as she sent a warm look off screen. “Dennis sends his best. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks.”
Eve swiveled away from the ’link, pressed her fingers to her eyes. “They’re going to do it,” she mumbled. “If not now, soon. I wish I didn’t have to know that.”
To clear the image, and the thought, out of her head, she turned back to Baxter’s file, and started digging.
At some point the cat wandered in to leap on her desk. When he got nothing but, “Don’t sit on my stuff,” he leaped back down to stalk into Roarke’s domain.
She started a new file listing the correlations, the connections—actual and possible—the time lines. Using the backside of her murder board, she arranged photos, notes, reports. Stood back, studied it.
