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“How did you learn to use the weapons, the laser rifles, the flash grenades, the handhelds?”
“My father taught me. He’s twice the cop you ever thought about being.”
“I guess that’s why I put him in a cage, where he’s going to stay for the rest of his life.”
“You only have him because he let you.”
“Is that so?”
“Fucking A, it’s so.”
“If you think I can’t bring a funky-junkie down, you didn’t pay attention to the vid.”
“Vid’s bullshit anyway. Just Hollywood crap.”
“Your father’s a junkie, and that’s no bullshit.”
“So he couldn’t hack it.” Lip curled, Willow jabbed out a finger. “See how you’d handle it if some fucker smeared your sugar daddy all over the pavement.”
“And the way to handle it was the funk for him, and planning how to kill everyone he blamed. Or having you do it because he can’t even hold a weapon steady these days.”
“So you say.”
“So I do. Do you want to deny it?”
Willow yawned, kicked back some to stare at the ceiling. “This is boring. You’re boring. Dallas,” she said, shifting her gaze to meet Eve’s. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. One of these days you’re not going to be wearing body armor. One of these days maybe you’ll just be walking down the street, and out of nowhere— Bang! You’re dead. Bet they won’t make a vid out of that.”
Eve kept her gaze steady, and she saw, clearly, what Zoe Younger had feared. She saw the killer inside. “You want me dead, Will?”
“I’d rather you were dead than me sitting here bored out of my mind.”
“Bored? Then let’s move it along. Stop wasting time. Let’s go back to Central Park. Three dead there. How did you pick them?”
“Who says I did?”
“Your father. He’s confessed. He called you his eyes, his hands. You made those strikes, Willow. He couldn’t pull it off.”
“I got my eyes and hands from him.”
“He ruined his own by going on the funk.”
Willow shrugged, then studied her fingernails. “That’s his deal, not mine. The way I look at it, drugs, alcohol, all that shit is bogus. They don’t keep it real.”
“You like it real.”
“What’s the point if you’re not feeling it? You’re not knowing it? You’re not doing it?”
Eve opened the file, took out photos of the first three victims. “How did you feel when you did this?”
Willow shifted forward, gave the photos a good, long study. What Eve saw in her eyes wasn’t curiousity or interest. It certainly wasn’t shock.
It was glee.
Not bored, Eve realized. Enthralled, excited, and stringing the process out. Because it kept her at the center.
“Those are primo strikes.” Willow paused to take a swig of her fizzy. “Anyone who can make strikes like that? They’re the elite.”
“Are you the elite?”
