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There was a certain ritual involved in Eve’s consults with Mira. Mira would offer—and Eve would feel obliged to accept—a fancy cup of flowery tea. They both knew Eve preferred coffee, just as they both knew the tea represented Mira’s calming influence, a break from the pressure. At least for that initial few moments.
As Eve sat in one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs she noted, as usual, the office was efficient and female, like the woman who ruled it. Apparently it didn’t bother Mira in the least to discuss the criminal mind, and the horrors inflicted on victims while photos of her family looked on.
Maybe she chose calming colors in her decor and her wardrobe to counteract those horrors, and scattered those photos around to ground herself to her own reality.
It occurred to her that she herself placed no photographs in her office—not at Central, not at home. Maybe, she considered, they’d be a distraction from the work, or maybe she’d just find it disconcerting to be “watched” while she worked. Or . . .
Didn’t matter, didn’t apply. Such analyses and suppositions were Mira’s territory. Eve needed the mind of the killer, needed to live inside it awhile—and her own sparse, uncluttered style suited her.
She considered her work outfit, one she’d chosen by simply grabbing what seemed easiest. Summer jacket, sleeveless tank, light-weight pants, boots. Work and weather related, period.
But Mira went for a breezy suit, sort of like a peppermint—white with tiny flecks of candy pink. The flecks matched the shiny shoes with the s
kinny heels that set off Mira’s very nice legs. She wore her glossy brown hair in flattering waves around her soft and pretty face, and added a little bit of glitter and shine in earrings, necklace, a fancy girl’s wrist unit.
Nothing overdone, Eve thought—at least not that her sense of style could discern. Everything just so, just right. And, yeah, she admitted, calming.
“You’re quiet,” Mira remarked as she handed Eve the ritual fancy cup of flowery tea.
“Sorry. I was thinking about wardrobe.”
Mira’s eyes, blue and as soft and pretty as the rest of her, widened in both humor and surprise. “Really?”
“As it applies to profession, or activity or personality. I don’t know.” See, she told herself, thinking about personal choices, personal style, was distracting.
“Peabody and McNab are heading to DC—a little undercover job at a game con,” she continued. “She’s all about needing to go home, shed what she thinks makes her look like a cop for what she thinks will make her look like a game buff. I figure she’s still pretty much going to look like Peabody because whatever she puts on came out of her closet, right, and she has it there because she put it there.”
“True. But there are different aspects to all of us, and often our choice of outfit for a particular occasion or duty reflects that aspect. You wouldn’t wear what you’re wearing now to accompany Roarke to a formal charity function, for instance, nor what you’d worn there here at work.”
“I would if I was running late for the charity deal—or if I got tagged while I was at the deal to a scene.” Eve shrugged. “But I get you. It’d be easier if we could wear whatever we want wherever we want.”
“And this from a woman who greatly respects rules. Society and fashion have them as well. Added to that what we wear can put us in the mood for what we have to do.”
She thought of the costume the game had programmed for her. She had to admit it had put her in the mood to fight, and made the sword feel familiar and right in her hand.
“The victim’s wardrobe didn’t have a lot of variety. He had some formal stuff and more traditional business attire mixed in, but primarily he went casual. Jeans, cargos, khakis, tees, and sweaters. And a lot of that—the shirts—was logoed and printed with game and vid stuff. He lived in his work.”
“You understand that.”
“The not just what he did but who he was, yeah. Everything I’ve got says he freaking loved it. He had toys and souvies all through his place. Games and game systems everywhere.”
“He must have been a happy man, to be able to do what he loved, and what he excelled at, every day. To make his living doing what made him the happiest. And with longtime friends.”
“Happy, normal, nice—these are the kinds of words I’m getting in statements from people who knew him.”
“Yes, it fits. He had a good life, and what appears to me to be a very normal and healthy one. He had a relationship, one that mattered, kept contact with his family, maintained his friendships, had enough ambition to work to see his company succeed and grow, but not so much as to exclude those relationships and friendships.”
She drank some tea, and Eve understood Mira took those moments to line up her thoughts.
“Your report says he enjoyed the company of children in his building, and was friendly with their parents. As much as he lived his work, he appeared to be well-rounded.”
“How does a healthy, well-rounded, happy guy get his head cut off in his own secured holo-room? That’s not really a question for you,” Eve added. “That’s something EDD and I have to figure out. But why, there’s a question. The method’s significant, and required a lot of trouble, a lot of work.”
“And it’s distracting.”
“Yeah, which could be part of the point. We’re puzzling over how the hell, why the hell, and maybe who the hell slips by. What kind of person uses this method, these circumstances?”
“Decapitation is certainly a form of mutilation, and would indicate a need or desire to defile—to conquer absolutely.”
