Festive in Death (In Death #39)(80)

“Exactly. Last year I was seeing someone, very casually, then because I—against my better judgment—asked him to a holiday event, people were all over me!”

“Tell me about it.”

They’d angled toward each other, Eve noted, drawn by the theme like magnets.

“I had to stop seeing someone because he started pressuring me about Christmas plans back in October,” Nadine said. “It makes you crazy.”

“Domestic violence, suicide, and homicide percentages rise exponentially between Thanksgiving and New Year’s,” Eve commented, and got baffled looks from both DeWinter and Nadine. “Carry on,” she decided, and slipped away.

She considered ducking into the salon—ten minutes’ quiet and solitude—but caught voices, laughter, so veered the other way. She could sneak downstairs to her office, she thought, grab those ten. But if she got caught in there—Summerset—there’d be hell to pay.

Plenty of other rooms up here, she thought, and headed away from the music, the voices, the lights, turned into what she recalled was a smallish sitting room.

Feeney was sprawled in one of the big, overstuffed chairs, his feet up, his tie loose. He looked half asleep, with the muted wall screen showing basketball.

He shot her a sheepish look. “Just wanted to check on the game, take a break.”

“Great. You’re now my excuse.” She dropped into another chair, heaved out a breath. “Jesus, Feeney, why do people like parties?”

“Like this one? Prime booze and eats, great space. And mostly girls—some of the guys, too—get a charge out of sprucing up fancy. Sheila’s having the time of her life. When I ducked out, she was talking to Ana Whitney and some Roarke exec about knitting. The three of them were into it like it was their religion. I needed ten.”

“I just ducked out on Nadine and DeWinter talking about dating. About holiday dating.”

“Maybe you win this one, but knitting’s pretty close. Music’s solid, though. Roarke knows how to rock the house. How’s the case going?”

“I’ve got some strong lines. I’m looking . . .” She trailed off when she sensed movement, glanced over to see Santiago hesitate in the doorway.

“Private party?” he asked.

“No. Just taking a break from the crowd.”

“Then I’m in.” He brought in a brew with him, grabbed a chair. “It’s a hell of a party, LT. Hell of a party. I was talking to this guy Derrick, works for Roarke. He played minor league ball for a couple years—screwed up his arm, switched to programming and design. Anyway, he’s got a local league plays ball. I’m going to check it out, see if I can get in on that.”

“What do you play?” Feeney asked him.

“High school and college? Shortstop. Got a partial ride in college on the sports scholarship. There’s nothing like baseball.”

“You didn’t stick with it?” Eve asked.

“I wanted the badge. Love to play, but it’s play for me. Not the job. I wanted the job.”

They talked baseball, talked shop. Eve told herself to get up, go back, do her duty. Then Reineke strolled in.

“Hey. Anybody else got the weird seeing Whitney tear up the dance floor?”

“Yes!” Eve and Santiago said together, and Feeney shook his head.

“You think because somebody’s got a few years on you, they don’t have the moves? Me and Jack could dance and drink the lot of you into the ground.”

“I don’t see you out there,” Reineke pointed out, flopped into a chair.

“You will.”

Carmichael came in, looking loose in a little black dress, bare feet, and sparkly red toenails. “Is this the bullpen?”

She sat on the arm of Santiago’s chair, copped his beer for a sip. “Whew! Some party, boss. Some serious party. I just saw Dickhead doing the sexy dance with Dr. DeWinter. I had to remove myself, save my eyes. She’s pretty sexy. If I went for girls, I’d be pretty wound up. But Dickhead’s just scary.”

“Christ. I better get back out there.”

“You could be next in the sexy-dance line.”

Eve started out, paused long enough to tap the tat at the base of her spine.

“What is that?” Reineke demanded.

“It stands for ‘kiss my ass,’” she told him, and left the cop laughter behind her.

Mulling tactics, she took the long way, ducked outside, then started around toward the ballroom terrace. Anybody asked, she’d been doing her mingling out there.

The detour caused her to walk in on Trueheart in a lip-lock with his girlfriend, which caused all three parties a moment of deep embarrassment. Eve kept moving while the couple flushed scarlet behind her.

She ran into Baxter next, just inside the ballroom. “Hey, Dallas, wanna dance?”

“Absolutely not. Don’t you have a date or something?”

“A man can’t bring a date to this kind of shindig. It’s too symbolic of serious business this close to Christmas. And it prevents him from trolling the single females.”

“So that’s actually true, on both sides of the line. Huh?”

“Since it’s a party, and also true, I’m gonna tell you you look incendiary. Love the ass tat.”