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He keyed it in, tested it. “Those phrases, your voice print. That’s a go. It’ll record into this.” He tapped a mini-monitor. “I’ll be bringing this to Roarke’s lab. We’ll set up another in your office. Peabody will be keyed in the same. The kid okay?”
“Yeah. Can you have McNab hook her up? They can use one of their rendezvous closets and everybody’ll just think they’re groping.”
“I like to pretend I don’t know about the closets and the groping. Yeah, I’ll tell the boy.”
She nodded. “Sixteen hundred, HQ, initial full briefing.”
“I’ll tell the wife not to hold dinner.”
She started out, hesitated. “Do you always remember? To tell her?”
“She doesn’t complain if I have to work a seventy-two-hour stretch, if I crash in the crib because I’m too beat to get home. She’s a damn good cop’s wife. But if I don’t tell her I’m going to be late for dinner, my life isn’t worth living.”
“I guess that’s fair. So, we’ll provide the chow.”
“That’s fair, too,” Feeney told her.
She walked out and headed for the Illegals division.
She made her strides brisk as she passed through the warren and angled off toward Renee Oberman’s squad. Engaged the recorder. She scanned the squad room, noted the case board, the assignments listed, the open cases, the closed ones.
Like any squad there was noise and movement, the tap of fingers, the beep of ’links, but it was muted—more to her mind like a droid office pool than a cop shop. And unlike her division every cop at a desk wore a suit. Nobody worked in shirtsleeves, and every man wore a tie. The smell was off, too, she decided. No hint of processed sugar or burned coffee.
No personal clutter either, mixed in with the files and disks, the memo cubes—not even in the cubes where a couple of uniforms worked.
A female detective with a short crop of curls and toffee-colored skin swiveled in her chair. “Looking for somebody?”
“Your boss. Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide. I need to speak with Lieutenant Oberman.”
“She’s got somebody in with her. Shouldn’t be long.” The detective wagged a thumb at the wide window and door—both with the blinds down and closed.
“I can wait. Any problem letting her know I’m here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“It’s sir in my unit.”
“Sir. Hold on.” Rather than go to the office, the woman tapped the keys of her interoffice com—added, Eve noted, the privacy mode. “Lieutenant, pardon the interruption. There’s a Lieutenant Dallas from Homicide here to see you. Yes, ma’am. One minute,” she said to Dallas. “Coffee in the break room if you want it.”
“I’m good, but thanks, Detective—”
“Strong.”
“Quiet in here,” Eve commented. “And clean.”
“Lieutenant Oberman commands an orderly space.” The detective added a small, humorless smile, then went back to work on her comp.
A moment later the office door opened. Eve recognized Garnet as he came out. “You can go right in,” he told her. “Bix, we’re rolling.”
As she crossed the room, Eve noticed a big blond rise from his desk, check the knot of his tie before following Garnet out.
Then she entered the sanctum.
It was the word that came to mind. The desk was wood, deeply grained, highly polished. It held a top-flight data and communication center, an engraved nameplate, and a small white vase of pink and white flowers. A mirror in a slim frame and a painting—some moody seascape—rode the walls in a space that tripled Eve’s office.
And dominating it on the wall across from the desk stood a full-length portrait of Commander Marcus Oberman standing militarily straight in dress blues.
Eve wondered how it felt to have him watch her every move—and why she’d chosen to.
