Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(95)

“Lady, my cousin’s a cop with the four-one.”

Teeth set, Eve whipped out her badge and stuck it in his face. “See that. It says Lieutenant, not sister, not lady. You could ask your cousin the cop with the four-one.”

“Brinkleman,” he muttered. “Sergeant Brinkleman.”

“You tell Sergeant Brinkleman with the four-one to contact Dallas, Homicide, Cop Central, and tell her why his cousin’s an ass**le. If he explains this factor to my satisfaction, I won’t pull your license and report the fact that you cut an official vehicle off in air traffic. You got that?”

“Yeah, I got it. Lieutenant.”

“Now, get the hell out of here.”

Chastised, the driver slunk back into his vehicle, hunched down, and waited patiently for a break in traffic. Because her temper was still on the boil, Eve spun on her heel and jabbed a finger at Peabody. “And you, you want to ride with me any more today, you yank the stick out of your butt.”

“Respectfully, Lieutenant, I was unaware of any foreign object in that region.”

“Your attempt at humor isn’t appreciated at this time, Officer Peabody. If you’re dissatisfied in your position as my aide, you can request reassignment.”

Peabody’s heart clogged in her throat. “I don’t want reassignment. Sir, I’m not dissatisfied in my position.”

Barely muffling a scream, Eve pivoted away and plowed through the pedestrian traffic, earned a few bruises and rude comments, then plowed back. “You keep it up. You keep using that academy tone on me, we’re going a few rounds.”

“You just threatened to ditch me.”

“I did not. I offered you the option of assignment elsewhere.”

Peabody’s voice wavered, so she clamped down. “I felt, and still feel, that you overstepped the boundaries last night in reference to my relationship with Charles Monroe.”

“Yeah, you made that clear.”

“It was inappropriate for my superior officer to criticize my choice of escort. It was a personal matter, and — “

“Goddamn right it was personal.” Eve’s eyes went dark, but not, Peabody noted with shock, in anger. There was hurt. “I wasn’t speaking as your superior officer last night. I never considered myself addressing my aide. I thought I was talking to a friend.”

Shame washed up from Peabody’s toes to the top of her head. “Dallas — “

“A friend,” she barreled on, “who was sloppy-eyed over an LC. An LC who was a suspect in an ongoing investigation.”

“But Charles — “

“Low on the list,” Eve snapped, “but still on it, as he’d been matched with one victim and with one of the attempts.”

“You never believed Charles was the killer.”

“No, I believed it was Rudy, and I was wrong. I could have been wrong about Charles Monroe, too.” And the possibility clawed at her. “Take the vehicle back to Central. Update Captain Feeney and Commander Whitney on the latest data regarding our current case. Advise them that I remain in the field.”

“But — “

“Take the f**king vehicle into Central,” Eve snapped. “That’s an order from a superior officer to her aide.” She turned and pushed her way through the crowd. This time she didn’t come back.

“Oh shit.” Peabody slumped down on the hood of the car, ignoring the bad-tempered horns, the blast of insidious holiday music pouring out of the storefront on the other side of the packed sidewalk. “Peabody, you’re an idiot.”

She sniffed, reached into her pocket for her handkerchief, then remembered Eve hadn’t given it back. Swiping the back of her hand under nose, she climbed into the car and prepared to follow orders.

By the time Eve reached the corner at Forty-first, she’d blown off enough steam to realize she wasn’t going to walk another thirty blocks to the lab to pick on Dickie.

One glance at the jammed humanity crammed onto the overhead people glides convinced her she wasn’t about to go that route, either.

A new wave of pedestrians caught her full in the back and swept her another half block before she could manage to dig in and shove her way clear. She choked on the steam of a glide-cart doing a brisk business on grilled soy dogs, blinked the resulting tears out of her eyes, and dug for her badge.

She clawed her way out to the curb, risked life and limb by stepping directly into the path of an oncoming cab, then slapped her badge on the windshield.

Climbing in, she tried to rub the stress of the last few minutes off her face, then dropped her hands into her lap and met the driver’s miserable eyes in the mirror.

Recognizing Detective Brinkleman from the four-one’s cousin, she let out one short bark of laughter. “It just figures, doesn’t it?”

“It’s been a crap day altogether,” he muttered.

“I hate Christmas.”

“I ain’t too fond of it myself right at the moment.”

“Get me down to Eighteenth. I’ll take it from there.”

“You could walk quicker.”

She took another look at the teeming sidewalk. “Go over and punch it. You get tagged, I’ll handle it with Traffic.”

“You’re the boss, Lieutenant.”

He took off like a lightning bolt, and Eve closed her eyes, admitting that the headache scrambling in her temples wasn’t going to vacate the premises without a chemical shove.