Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(23)

“Did anyone point out his wife was rolling in it, and I bet my ass and yours had a staff?”

“Yeah, that sort of thing, and the fact that the Professional Parent Act is about as popular as they get, is why his numbers tanked. The pundits figure he opted not to run because he couldn’t win.”

“The pundits.”

Peabody shrugged, all but buried her chin in the folds of her scarf. “Sometimes I watch when I’m crafting. McNab doesn’t mind because if they have someone like Senator Horseshit on there, or Congresswoman Vidali—you know about her?”

“I don’t, and don’t want to.”

“Well, she’s such a liar, and a hypocrite. I hate when people like that start in on how God wants them to whatever, like they have some secret handshake with God the rest of us don’t know about. It gets me pretty worked up. Then we have hot sex.”

Eve’s eye wanted to twitch, but she willed it away. “You and Vidali.”

Peabody snickered. “Oh yeah, we’re all over each other. But seriously, mostly I’d like to punch her. I’ll think: Man, I’d like to punch you right in your lying face. So I jump McNab instead. It works for us.”

Eve thought of the scarf she was wearing, and wondered how many times Peabody had jumped McNab during the making thereof. She decided never to think about it again. Ever.

She got in the car, shot into a skinny gap in traffic, and let horns blast in her wake.

“We’ll take ten after the ceremony, then it’s back in street clothes. I want to talk to the artist first.”

“In her twenties, right? That’s just icky—and I’m not an age bigot.”

“What do the pundits say?”

“Not much on screen. Maybe it’s an unspoken rule or something. But if you go on some political blogs and websites, there’s a lot of chatter about his diddling. Not just him, but this is about him, so . . . I haven’t read anything about the artist. Yet.”

“Why don’t you dig into that area? The diddling area. Maybe there’s chatter about somebody not on my list, or smoke about bitter breakups. You dig up anything, you copy me and Hanson.”

“On it, over it, and through it. In fact . . .” Peabody pulled out her PPC. “I’ll get started on it now.”

Eve drove the rest of the way in silence, broken only by the occasional angry mutter from her partner.

She took a quick scan when she turned into Homicide. Carmichael hustled in from the locker room, in full dress blues. Trueheart and his trainer, now partner, were either still sprucing up or already headed down for the induction. Both Santiago and Jenkinson sat at their desks, one on a ’link, the other on a comp.

Santiago obviously still had some time on the bet he’d lost to Carmichael, as he had the cowboy hat perched on his head. And Jenkinson had managed to find yet another eye-burning tie. This one had puke-green and piss-yellow stripes.

Saying nothing, she circled a finger in the air in a wind-it-up signal, then took five in her office to grab coffee and write up brief notes.

She made it to the locker room after Peabody and found her partner in her uniform pants, bra, undertank, and tears.

“What? What is it? Don’t do that.”

“My pants are loose.”

“Well, Christ, tighten your belt.”

At Eve’s impatient order, a fresh tear spilled. “They’re loose in the waist, and even a little baggy in the butt. I lost some weight. I actually lost some weight. I know how this uniform fit the last time I wore it. And now it’s just a little bit loose.”

“Okay, great, woo! Now pull it together.”

“I’ve really been trying, especially the last few weeks. I’ve been hitting the gym three times a week. I stopped weighing myself,” she said as Eve pulled out her own uniform. “Because the number just wouldn’t budge and it’s so damn discouraging. You don’t know what it’s like.”

Though undressing in front of anyone but Roarke made her uncomfortable, Eve started to strip. “Maybe I don’t, exactly. But I was skinny. I don’t mean thin or lean, I mean skinny. And weak. I had to work to build myself up some, to build some muscle, get strong. So I know what it’s like to look in the mirror and not really like what’s looking back.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“You lose weight, tone up, you do it to get fit and strong, not to hit a number. Anybody with a brain knows that.”

“I do know that. I still want the number, but I know that. I’ve been working on my hand-to-hand, too.”

“Good.” Eve pulled on her own uniform pants, decided they fit the way they always did.

“But . . . does my ass look smaller?”

“Jesus, Peabody.”

“Come on, be a pal. Does it?”

Eve pulled on her uniform jacket, narrowed her eyes in a long, hard study. “I can barely see it.”

On a watery laugh, Peabody did a little shuffle dance. “Thanks. You’ve got to wear your medals.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Want me to help you pin them on? All that weight.”

“Bite me. And next time I’m getting dressed in my office.”

Smiling, Peabody buttoned her jacket. “I’m proud to wear the uniform today. I mean, I always was, but especially today.”