Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(30)

And if the cost of winter coats could be Slashed! Sixty Percent Off! in February, why didn’t stores charge less for them in, say, October, and move the damn inventory?

Just because certain people could toss around four figures for a pair of boots? To borrow from ancient slang, that was whack.

She glanced down at the boots currently on her feet, told herself not to think about it. Reminded herself those boots would likely see considerable mileage before the closet fairies disappeared them.

And she had a killer to catch.

As she bulled her way downtown, she decided to multitask and tagged Nadine.

It didn’t surprise her to see Nadine Furst, dogged crime-beat reporter, bestselling crime writer, and all-around smart girl, come on screen within seconds.

Not camera ready for a change, Eve mused, and with her streaky blond hair sleek and wet.

“Get you out of the shower?”

“Nearly. If you’re heading into Central, I’ll be there in thirty.”

“I’m not. I’m in the field.”

“The morgue then.” Face naked, eyes hard, Nadine nodded. “A visit to Larinda.”

“Figured you heard.”

“Of course I heard.” As she spoke, she moved. Eve saw a blur of Nadine’s swanky new bedroom in her swanky new apartment. “Just like I heard you were on scene when it happened—Roarke’s bar. I need a one-on-one, and I need it this morning.”

“I need an interview—official,” Eve countered, “and I need it this morning.”

Movement stopped. “With me? Why?”

Eve noted Nadine now stood in her closet—nearly as big as her own, and even more ruthlessly organized.

“I’ll get to that during the interview. I have to come to the station anyway. I’ll talk to you there. About two hours, so be there.”

“I want that one-on-one, Dallas. Larinda was—loosely—an associate, a coworker. The station’s already all over this, and I’m the top crime reporter—on screen and in the field.”

“We’ll talk,” Eve repeated. “Two hours.”

And clicked off.

She’d be annoyed, Eve thought. And she’d push for the one-on-one. Which Eve already intended to give her—and which Nadine already knew she’d get.

But the steps of investigation came first.

She continued multitasking as she strode down the white, echoing tunnel of the morgue.

Cesca the waitress came on screen, heavy-eyed, purple hair tousled. “Um,” she said.

“I’m sorry to tag you so early,” Eve began. “I need a follow-up with you. I’d like you to come into Central.”

“Into…” The heavy eyes popped wide. “Am I in trouble? Am I a, what, like a suspect?”

“Neither. You may be able to help in our investigation. I can arrange for transportation if you need it.”

“No. No, I can … Now?”

“How about in an hour? If you come through the main entrance, go to the first security desk. I’m going to have you cleared up to me.”

“Okay. Okay. But … Can I bring a friend? I don’t want to come by myself. Is that okay? Wow.” She shoved and pushed at her wedge of hair. “I’m so nervous.”

“You can bring whoever you want, and there’s no reason to be nervous. I can come to your place, but this saves me some time. I’d appreciate it.”

“Okay. Okay.” Cesca pushed at her purple hair again, and didn’t look convinced. “You didn’t catch the killer yet?”

“I’m working on it. An hour,” Eve said, clicking off as she reached the doors to Morris’s theater.

Today’s music, hard-edged rock—beat low. Morris, a clear cape over a navy suit with thin, metallic red stripes, stood over Larinda Mars.

His hair slicked back from his interesting face to form a looped braid twined in that same metallic red. The red—mirrored in his tie—told Eve grief hadn’t dogged him when he’d chosen today’s wardrobe.

DeWinter, just being DeWinter, she supposed, earned some points for that.

Larinda, her chest spread open, lay naked on the stainless-steel slab.

If the dead had concerns about modesty, those who stood for them couldn’t accommodate it.

“I wasn’t able to finish with her last night.” Morris studied a readout on his lab comp. “I had a suicide pact—neither of them old enough for a legal brew. Baxter and Trueheart caught it,” he said, glancing back toward his wall of drawers. “All evidence supports they considered themselves—with the influence of illegals—a Romeo and Juliet who would only find happiness in death. It’s sad they failed to understand what they based their decision on wasn’t a romance, but a tragedy.”

“I never got it. A couple of kids take a look at each other and decide they’re crazy in love while their families are like the Coys and McHats.”

“Hatfields and McCoys,” Morris corrected, the sorrow in his dark, exotic eyes fading to amusement. “Or in this case the Montagues and Capulets.”

“Whatever. Stupid. So they both end up dead—self-terminations in the old ‘can’t be with you, I’ll die instead.’”

She stuck her hands in her pockets, scanned the drawers. “I figure people who haven’t dealt with death up close don’t get it ends life and any and all potential therein. And even when life sucks wide, it can get better. Anyway, this one didn’t self-terminate.”