Obsession in Death(68)

“That’s a good read.”

“There’s more – to me. You don’t have sisters, so you maybe don’t pick up on the really, really subtle, passive-aggressive bullshit. It buzzed for me a few times, here and there. It’s this: Oh, you’re restrained by the rules, the system, so you can’t really finish things off. And how people disrespect you – it’s implied you take it. Maybe have to take it. Those rules again.”

“Where does she say that?”

“Implied,” Peabody repeated. “Like…” She scrolled through the e-mails until she found what she wanted.



I DON’T KNOW HOW YOU TAKE THE WAY SOME OF THESE PEOPLE GET IN YOUR FACE, DISRESPECT YOU SO BLATANTLY. I’D NEVER BE ABLE TO TOLERATE IT.



“You can read that, why do you take that shit? You ought to stand up for yourself, and since you don’t, I guess I have to.”

“Read between the lines,” Eve noted.

“Yeah. She says that sort of thing in different ways. And then there’s how she keeps hammering how much you have in common – and how strong and brave and smart you are. How important you are.”

And reading between the lines, Eve nodded. “Because she wants to feel that way, wants that reflected back on her.” Eve thought of the dream, the blurry reflection, and understood she’d already gotten to that in some part of her brain. “If she’s a cop, she hasn’t climbed the ranks. If she’s periphery, she’s competent, likely considered a solid asset, but doesn’t draw a lot of attention.”

“Or accolades,” Peabody added. “She wants them, don’t you think? But she’s too afraid to push herself out there? Maybe?”

“I need to talk to Mira. Again.” She checked the time. “If she could come by here, or I could go by there before she goes into Central, I think we could add to the profile. Use the auxiliary, Peabody. Start going through the names the rest of the team sent in. For now, just the women.”

“If you’ve zeroed in, they won’t find her in your correspondence.”

“Maybe she slipped up. It would only take once.”

Eve sat down to contact Mira, annoyed when an incoming e-mail interrupted. She started to ignore, then checked the sender’s address in case it applied to the investigation.



DLE#[email protected].



She clicked it open, hit copy, reached for the house ’link.

“I’ve got a fresh one, just came in, forwarding to you,” she told Roarke.

“It’s coming through now. Starting the trace.”

She read as they worked, said nothing as Peabody jumped up to read over her shoulder.



Eve,



I failed. I failed you, failed myself. I hope you can forgive me. I know you will, but it will be harder to forgive myself. He should be dead, with his ugly eyes destroyed.



He should be dead.



You would ask, as I do, what a woman like Matilda is doing with such a vicious, violent man? Some women are weak, some women almost ask for mistreatment, abuse, disrespect. Her weakness saved his life. My miscalculation saved him.



I know you see some redeeming quality in him. That’s your compassion, I suppose. Or is it a weakness? I hate to think that. But is it, Eve, is it a weakness in you, a flaw in what I so want to see as perfection? Is this why you tolerate disrespect from those so unworthy? Is this why you follow the rules that too often protect the guilty and ignore the innocent, the victim?



I don’t want to believe it. I want to believe that justice is your god, as it is mine. I want to believe you celebrate with me on the death of two people who not only abused you but were responsible for injustice and rewarding the guilty.



I’ve begun to doubt this is true. Are you one of them after all, Eve? Calling for justice while subverting it?



We have to think. We have to be sure. I’ve killed for you, and now I find myself wondering if you’re worthy of the gift, of my friendship and my devotion – something you rejected publicly.



How that hurt me, to hear you say, so coldly, “inaccurate.”



Have I let you down, Eve, or have you let me down? I have to know. For now, I struggle to remain



Your true friend.





Peabody laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “She’s turned on you.”

Nodding slowly, Eve felt the faint sickness she’d carried since she’d read the first message burn away. “About f*cking time.”





14

“Smart, she’s a smart girl,” Roarke murmured.

At his station he worked on the trace manually while McNab stood at another station, tick-tocking his hips while he ran an auto-trace.

“Got chops,” McNab agreed. “Got flex. Bounce and swerve, echo it, pass on, bounce again. Got a fence line here, too, and a wall behind it.”

“I see it, yes. And the bloody pit beyond it.”

“Watch the three-sixty,” McNab warned. “Virus.”

“Aye, but a distraction’s all it is. Does she think we’re a couple of gits? She’s set a Dragon’s Tail under it, Ian.”

“Crap, crap. Got it.”