Creation in Death (In Death #25)(43)

“I know it. I—”

“You don’t know how many times I’ve dug it out since and lived and breathed it again,” he interrupted furiously. “So now you figure it’s turned for you and you can rip my work to pieces without so much as a heads-up.”

“That wasn’t my intent or my purpose. The investigation is my priority—”

“It’s f**king well mine.”

“Is it?” Temper and distress bubbled a nasty stew in her belly. “Fine, then, because I handled this the best I know how—fast. The faster we work it, the better Rossi’s chances are, and right now they’re about as good as a snowball’s in hell. Your work wasn’t the issue. Her life is.”

“Don’t tell me about her life.” He jabbed his finger in the air toward her. “Or York’s, or Dagby’s, or Congress’s, Waters’s, or Weitz’s. You think you’re the only one who knows their names?” Bitterness crackled in his tone. “Who carries the weight of them around? Don’t you stand there and lecture me about your priorities. Lieutenant.”

“You’ve made your viewpoint and your feelings on this matter clear. Captain. Now, as primary, I’m telling you, you need to back off. You need to take a break.”

“Fuck that.”

“Take an hour in the crib, or go home and crash until you can shake this off.”

“Or what? You’ll boot me off the investigation?”

“Don’t bring it down to that,” she said quietly. “Don’t put either of us there.”

“You put us here. You better think about that.” He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the glass shudder.

Eve’s breath whistled out as she braced a hand on her desk, as she lowered herself into her chair. Her legs felt like water, her gut like a storm inside a violent sea.

They’d had words before. It wasn’t possible to know someone, work with someone, especially under circumstances that were so often tense and harsh, and not have words. But these had been so biting and vicious, she felt as if her skin was flayed from them.

She wanted water—just a gallon or two—to ease the burning of her throat, but didn’t think she was steady enough to get up and get it.

So she sat until she got her wind back, until the tremor in her hands ceased. And with a headache raging from the base of her skull up to her crown, she called up the next file, prepared to make the next call.

She stuck with it for two hours solid, with translators when necessary. Needing air, she rose, muscled her window open. And just stood, breathing in the cold. A couple more hours, she thought. In a couple more, she’d finish with this step, run more probabilities, write up the report.

Organizing data and hunches, statements and hearsay, writing it all down in clear, factual language always helped you see it better, feel it better.

Feeney had taught her that, too.

Goddamn it.

When her communicator signaled, she wanted to ignore it. Just let it beep while she stood, breathing in the cold.

But she pulled it out. “Dallas.”

“I think I’ve got something.” The excitement in McNab’s voice cut through the fog in her brain.

“On my way.”

When she walked into the war room, she could almost see the ripple of energy and could see Feeney wasn’t there.

“Her home unit,” McNab began.

“Fell into your lap, Blondie,” Callendar commented.

“Was retrieved due to my exceptional e-skills, Tits.”

The way they grinned at each other spoke of teamwork and giddy pride.

“Save it,” Eve ordered. “What’ve you got?”

“I’ll put it on the wall screen. I found it under ‘Gravy.’ I’d been picking through docs labeled ‘PT,’ ‘PP,’ ‘Instruction,’ and well, anyway. I hit the more obvious, figuring gravy was like nutrition or, I dunno, recipes. What she means is extra—the gravy.”

“Private clients.”

“Yeah, like she couldn’t have doc’d it that way? So, she’s had a bunch. Works with someone until they don’t want anymore, or does monthly follow-ups. Before she starts she does this basic analysis—sort of like a proposal, I think. Tons of them in there. But this one…”

McNab tapped one of his fingers on the comp screen. “She created sixteen days ago, and she’s finessed and updated it here and there since. Up to the night before she poofed. She made a disc copy of it, which isn’t anywhere in her files.”

“Took it with her,” Eve concluded as she studied the wall screen. “Took the proposal to the client. TED.”

“His name, or the name he gave her. She has all her private clients listed by first name on the individualized programs she worked up.”

“Height, weight, body type, measurements, age.” Eve felt a little giddy herself. “Medical history, at least as he gave it to her. Goals, suggested equipment and training programs, nutrition program. Thorough. Boys and girls,” Eve announced. “We’ve got our first description. Unsub is five feet, six and a quarter inches, at a weight of a hundred and sixty-three pounds. A little paunchy, aren’t you, you son of a bitch? Age seventy-one. Carries some weight around the middle, according to these measurements.”