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“Good. You’re buying.”
They started toward the glide, arguing over who should pick up the tab. It was, in Eve’s mind, a good, solid partnership forming in a short amount of time.
“Now I want an egg cream,” Peabody muttered. “I missed breakfast due to ask
ing if I wanted to be asked and sex.”
“Settle for fake lemons, because you’re not going to Avenue B. Do the run, set up the follow-ups. I’ll put the board and book together.”
She walked through the bullpen, through the familiar sounds and smells—fake sugar, fake fat, fake coffee, real sweat, voices, beeping ’links, humming comps—and into her office.
The message light on her desk ’link flashed like neon on Vegas II. She scowled at it, hit the AutoChef for coffee, then ordered a list of callers without the messages.
Reporters, she thought with mild annoyance as the list ran down. And more reporters. Nadine, of course—twice. She’d have to deal with them, and before much longer. But they’d just have to wait until she set up her board, wrote up her notes.
As she began, she had a low-level urge for that egg cream, which made her think of chocolate, and the candy she’d successfully hidden—again—from the greedy hands of the nefarious Candy Thief.
She glanced toward her rickety visitor’s chair where the candy sat snugly inside—she hoped—the bottom of the seat she’d carefully removed and replaced.
The candy would have to wait, too, she decided.
She finished the board, pinning up both ID and crime scene shots of the victim, ID shots of everyone who’d been at the dinner party, more crime scene photos—the purse, the herbal/zoner butts, broken glass—the sweeper’s initial reports, ME Carter’s reports and results.
She sat at her desk, drank the rest of the coffee while she studied the board.
She’d started on her notes, writing up a time line, when she heard footsteps approaching.
Not Peabody, she thought idly. Peabody had a distinctive clump. This was a purposeful stride.
Whitney, she thought, straightening at her desk seconds before her commander stepped in.
“Dallas.”
“Sir.” She got to her feet, uneasy. Commander Whitney rarely came to her. More rarely came to her office and shut the door as he did now.
“K.T. Harris,” he said.
“Sir. The ME has determined her death a homicide. As I was on scene at the TOD, I was able to interview, with Detectives Peabody and McNab, all individuals also present.”
“Including yourself?”
“I’ll be writing that up, yes, sir. I should have a full report for you shortly.”
“Sit down, Lieutenant.”
He lowered to her visitor’s chair, frowned. “Why in God’s name don’t you requisition a replacement for this? It’s like sitting on bricks.”
She felt weird knowing her commander’s ass was one crappy cushion away from squatting on her candy. “Because nobody sits on bricks for long. Take the desk chair, Commander.”
He waved that away, sat for a moment, studying her board. He had a wide, dark face, lined from years and the weight of command. His hair, cropped short and close to the skull, showed thickening threads of silver.
“We have some areas of complication with this matter.” He nodded toward her flashing ’link. “Media?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll deal with it.”
“Yes, you will. That’s one complication. Another is your connection to the victim.”
“I had no connection to the victim.”
