Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(16)

She programmed coffee from her AutoChef and, with a satisfied sigh, sat at her desk to read over the reports and logs generated during her absence.

Murder hadn’t taken a holiday during hers, she noted, but her division had run pretty smooth. She moved through closed and open cases, requests for leave, overtime, personal time, reimbursements.

She heard the muffled clump that was Peabody’s summer air boots, and glanced up as her partner stepped into the open doorway.

“Welcome home! How was it? Was it just mag?”

“It was good.”

Peabody’s square face sported a little sun-kiss, which reminded Eve her partner had taken a week off with her squeeze, Electronic Detectives Division ace McNab. She had her dark hair pulled back in a short, but jaunty tail, and wore a thin, buff-colored jacket over cargo trousers a few shades darker. Her tank matched the air boots in a bright cherry red.

“It looks like DS Moynahan kept things oiled while I was gone.”

“Yeah. He sure dots every ‘i,’ but he’s easy to work with. He’s solid, and he knows how to ride a desk. He steers clear of field work, but he had a good sense of how to run the ship. So, what did you get?”

“A pile of reports.”

“No, come on, for your anniversary. I know Roarke had to come up with something total. Come on,” Peabody insisted when Eve just sat there. “I came in early just for this. I figure we’ve got nearly five before we’re officially on the clock.”

True enough, Eve thought, and since Peabody’s brown eyes pleaded like a puppy’s, she held up her arm, displayed the new wrist unit she wore.

“Oh.”

The reaction, Eve thought, was perfect. Baffled surprise, severe disappointment, the heroic struggle to mask both.

“Ah, that’s nice. It’s a nice wrist unit.”

“Serviceable.” Eve turned her wrist to admire the simple band, the flat, silver-toned face.

“Yeah, it looks it.”

“It’s got a couple of nice features,” she added as she fiddled with it.

“It’s nice,” Peabody said again, then drew her beeping communicator out of her pocket. “Give me a sec, I . . . hey, it’s you.” Mouth dropping, Peabody jerked her head up. “It’s got a micro-com in it? That’s pretty mag. Usually they’re all fuzzy, but this is really clean.”

“Nano-com. You know how the vehicle he rigged up for me looks ordinary?”

“Ordinary leaning toward ugly,” Peabody corrected. “But nobody gives it a second look or knows that it’s loaded, so . . . same deal?”

Automatically Peabody dug out her ’link when it signaled, then paused. “Is that you? It’s got full communication capability? In a wrist unit that size?”

“Not only that, it’s got navigation, full data capabilities. Total data and communications—he programmed it with all my stuff. If I had to, I could access my files on it. Waterproof, shatterproof, voice-command capabilities. Gives me the ambient temp. Plus it tells time.”

Not to mention he’d given her a second with the exact same specs—only fired with diamonds. Something she’d wear when she suited up for fancy.

“That is so utterly iced. How does it—”

Eve snatched her wrist away. “No playing with it. I haven’t figured it all out myself yet.”

“It’s just like the perfect thing for you. The abso perfect thing. He really gets it. And you got to go to Ireland and Italy and finish it up at that island he’s got. Nothing but romance and relaxation.”

“That’s about it, except for the dead girl.”

“Yeah, and McNab and I had a really good time—what? What dead girl?”

“If I had more coffee I might be inclined to tell you.”

Peabody sprang toward the AutoChef.

Minutes later, she polished off her own cup and shook her head. “Even on vacation you investigated a homicide.”

“I didn’t investigate, the Irish cop did. I consulted—unofficially. Now my serviceable yet frosty wrist unit tells me we’re on duty. Scram.”

“I’m scramming, but I want to tell you about how McNab and I took scuba lessons, and—”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, but I liked it. And how I did these interviews on Nadine’s book, which is still number one in case you haven’t been checking. If we don’t catch a case, maybe we can have lunch. I’ll buy.”

“Maybe. I’ve got to catch up.”

Alone, she considered it. She wouldn’t mind hanging for lunch, she realized. It would be a kind of bridge between vacation and the job, screwing around and the routine of work.

She didn’t have any meetings scheduled, no actives on her plate. She’d need to go over some of the open cases with the teams assigned, touch base with Moynahan mostly to thank him for his service. Other than that—

She scanned the next report, answering her ’link. “Lieutenant Dallas, Homicide.”

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.





So much, she thought, for bridges.





Jamal Houston died with his chauffeur’s hat on behind the wheel of a limo of glittery gold, long and sleek as a snake. The limo had been tidily parked in a short-term slot at LaGuardia.