Born in Death (In Death #23)(40)

“It’s insulting to you.”

“Not if I offer it—more, insist on it. Which is exactly what I’m doing.” He knew how to calculate the odds, he thought. How to manipulate them. And how to win. “I won’t look at any of the data unless you agree to this provision. We can argue about it if you like, but that’s my line. I’ll have it taken care of, then we’ll move forward.”

“Fine. Fine. If that’s the way you want it.” She had to fight back the urge to kick something again.

“It is. I’m happy to look at the client list.”

She moved to her desk, pulled out a hard copy from her file bag. “Look it over, think it over. I’ve got some runs to do meanwhile.”

And some sulking, he imagined. “I’ll be in my office, then.”

She did sulk, but she worked while she was at it.

She did probabilities and was satisfied that the computer agreed—at 93.4 percent—that someone inside the firm was connected to the double murder.

She studied her notes, Peabody’s reports, the lab’s, the ME’s, the crime-scene records. And put up a second murder board.

New lock on the door, she reminded herself. Kitchen knife in the bedroom. But Natalie hadn’t been afraid enough to bunk with her boyfriend, or hole up in a hotel. Not afraid enough to tell her sister not to come and stay with her.

“Knew the killer,” Eve said aloud. “Or the go-between. Nervous, excited, cautious, but not seriously afraid for her life. Knife in the bedroom. Girl thing.”

She paced in front of the board as she thought. Any serious attacker could probably have disarmed a woman of Copperfield’s build. But she’s alone, starts wigging just a little. Takes the knife like she could use it if she had to.

“Not a stupid woman, but seriously naive,” Eve added. “Gonna handle this deal herself, with her guy. A little excitement in their lives. But who else did she tell?”

When her ’link beeped, she turned, answered it absently. “Dallas.”

“Hey, I know it’s late but I got this brainstorm.” Peabody’s brows drew together on the display screen. “Are you still working?”

“Who did she tell?”

“Who, what?”

Obviously, Eve thought as she pulled her mind away from the murder board, Peabody wasn’t still working. “What brainstorm?”

“About the shower?”

“Oh, Christ on a plastic crutch.”

“Look, it’s the day after tomorrow.”

“No, it’s not. It’s on Saturday.”

“And tomorrow being Friday, Saturday follows. At least in my pretty little world.”

“Damn it, damn it, damn it.”

“So anyway, I’ve got the theme going, and picked up some stuff on my way home. I thought if I came by there tomorrow night, stayed over, we could put it all together in the morning.”

“What does that mean, putting it all together?”

“Well, the decorations, and these flower things I ordered, and, well…stuff. Plus I got this idea about the rocker system you bought her and how we can use it as a focal point, but disguise it like a throne until—”

“Please, in the name of God, don’t tell me any more.”

“So it chills with you if me and McNab bunk there tomorrow night?”

“Sure, bring the family, all your friends, strangers you find on the street. All are welcome here.”

“Uptown! Catch you in the morning.”

She clicked off, then sat on the edge of her desk staring at nothing in particular. Baby showers and double murders. Was she the only one who could see they didn’t mix? She wasn’t equipped for the first. It wasn’t in her makeup.

But she’d tried, hadn’t she? She’d called the caterer, and she’d let Mavis invite a horde of people—many of whom would be stranger than alien mutants. And still, it wasn’t enough.

“Why do I have to decorate?” she demanded when Roarke stepped to the doorway.

“You don’t. In fact, I sincerely wish you wouldn’t. I like our home as it is.”

“See? Me, too.” She threw out her arms. “Why does it have to get tricked out for a baby shower?”

“Oh. That. Well…I have no idea. I really choose to remain ignorant in this particular area of societal customs.”

“Peabody said we have to have a theme.”

He looked momentarily baffled. “A song?”

“I don’t know.” Confused, Eve covered her eyes with her hands. “And there’s going to be a throne.”

“For the baby?”

“I don’t know.” Now she pulled at her hair. “I can’t think about it. It throws me off. I was thinking about murder, and I was fine. Now I’m thinking about themes and thrones, and I feel a little sick.”

Eve took a huge breath. “Who did she tell?”

“Peabody? I thought she just told you.”

“No, God, not Peabody. Natalie Copperfield. Who did she trust or respect or feel obliged to report to if she found something off? Which of her clients did she believe, while they might do something illegal, unethical, might offer a bribe, wouldn’t cause her real physical harm? Because there’s no way she’d have let her sister come over, talked about pancake breakfasts, if she believed there might be actual danger.”