Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(37)

“How does it know?” But when he turned to it, she grabbed his arm. “No, it’s too much for the first time in here. I have to sort of ease into it.”

“I simply adore you,” he stated, but stilled her hand before she grabbed navy trousers. “Then you’d have a sort of uniform, wouldn’t you? These.” He pulled out brown trousers, a kind of rusty brown, then shifted to vests, pulled one that had the same tone with navy blue buttons, added a crisp, tailored white shirt.

He handed her the lot, selected boots, brown and sturdy.

“I was getting the hang of it before everything got bigger.”

“And you’ll get the hang of it again.” He kissed her cheek, left her to dress.

Maybe she would, she thought, but she didn’t think she’d be making friends with the closet comp anytime soon.

When she came out, strapped her weapon harness over the vest, Roarke gestured to the screen. “Reports and speculations re the Strazza assault/murder and the investigation.”

“Then I’d better get to it.” She pulled on the jacket, picked up her badge, her ’link, her comm, her restraints, added her clutch piece.

“You look completely competent.”

“Clothes don’t make the cop.”

“But they give her an aura. Take care of my competent cop.”

“Will do.” She stepped to him, kissed him. Then left him to get to it.





8

As she fought her way downtown, Eve checked in with the duty nurse, learned Daphne had had a restless night, required a mild sedative. And that Dr. Nobel was already on his way in. The patient’s physical condition had been upgraded to satisfactory.

The cuts and bruises would heal, Eve thought. The damage to the psyche took longer.

Put the past behind you—that’s what people always said. But those people didn’t get that the past was always behind you. Like a hound on the scent.

She pulled into Central, started toward the elevator, and spotted Jenkinson. You couldn’t miss the tie, not even from space.

With his coat open, it glowed toad green with—perhaps not coincidentally—bug-eyed frogs of yellow and blue hopping over it.

“You could light a cave with that thing around your neck.”

“Never know when you might end up in one. How was the time off, LT?”

“Quiet. Warm. Sunny. Everything winter is not.”

“Nice.” They stepped onto the elevator. “Cleared a couple while you were dancing on the beach.”

“Junkie knifed by second junkie, woman bludgeoned by ex-boyfriend.”

Jenkinson eyed her as the elevator stopped and more cops shuffled on. “Checking up on us from sun and sand?”

“I was in yesterday. Caught one yesterday morning, about two in the A.M.”

“Well, welcome home.” Then he frowned. “Strazza business?”

“That’s the one.”

“Getting play in the media. Bigwig surgeon, young fancy wife. She messed up bad?”

“Pretty bad.”

“Still…”

“Yeah, always look at the spouse first. But this woman didn’t rape herself, bust up her own face. Got two like crimes in the past year, just without the murder.”

Though the elevator stopped again, added more people, she decided to ride it out.

“He dresses up.”

Jenkinson, who’d been balefully eyeing the levels as they lit up, turned back to Eve. “What, like in a tuxedo?”

“Like monsters. Horned devil on this one.”

Jenkinson shook his head. “People are fucked-up.”

A couple more cops came on. One of them studied Jenkinson. “That’s some tie you got there, Jenks.”

“Yeah, that’s what your sister said when I put it on this morning.”

That got a few snorts and made the crowded ride a little more entertaining.

When they shoved their way off, Jenkinson kept pace with Eve toward the bullpen. “Reineke and I are clear right now if you need more hands with this case.”

“We’ll see how it goes.”

The minute they stepped into the bullpen, Jenkinson leaped forward. “Hey! Are those sticky buns?”

Santiago stuffed the last of one—from the box Eve had left in the break room—in his mouth, mumbled incomprehensibly over it.

Eve kept going toward her office, so whoever had already reported for duty could fight over whatever was left.

Eve hit her office AutoChef for coffee, tossed off her coat and winter gear, and studied her board with rested eyes.

She had two police artist concepts of the first two costumes. Not Yancy’s work, but more than decent. And still, she imagined, the victims’ impressions, their fear, might have lent some drama to the looks.

She put in a tag to Yancy, left him a v-mail requesting he work with Daphne Strazza at the hospital in addition to the rental crew. She could use a good sketch of the devil.

Since Peabody hadn’t reported in, Eve contacted the first victims, ran into a house droid that gave her grief. She geared up for a fight, then heard the click of Mira’s heels heading to her office.

“We’ll get back to you.” She disconnected, held up a finger as Mira came in, and tagged Peabody. “Get your ass to work and contact the first two pairs of vics, arrange interview times. There or here. Make it happen.”