Memory in Death (In Death #22)(104)

She wrote it up, exactly as she saw it, listed all supporting evidence. She was going personally to the PA, to a judge, and pressing for the warrants.

Her 'link signalled on her way down the steps. "Dallas, talk fast."

"Hey, I'm back, I'm here. You're not. We had—"

"Contact the PA's office," she interrupted Peabody's cheerful greeting. "Get Reo if you can. She's their golden girl right now."

"What—"

"I need a consult ASAP, and their recommendation for a judge who'll be most apt to sign a couple of warrants."

"For who? For what?"

"For Zana. Search of the hotel room, her belongings. Suspicion of murder, suspicion of attempted murder. That'll start the ball."

"Zana? But—"

"Do it, Peabody." She grabbed her coat from the newel post, swung it on as she walked by Summerset. "I'll run the game for the PA. You want to catch up, read the reports I sent to your desk unit. I've got to run this by the commander. I'm on my way in."

"Jeez, every time I take a day off, something happens."

"Get it moving. I want her in Interview this morning."

She disconnected. Her car was, like her coat, already waiting. At the moment, she decided she was just juiced enough to be grateful for Summerset's annoying efficiency.

Her blood was up. Maybe it was running hotter than it should, but she'd analyze that later. Right now she knew she was on track. She'd have surprise on her side; something she thought she could use with

an opponent like Zana. Like Marie, she corrected. It was time to start thinking of her by that name.

She was going to close this down, then it would be over. Something she would set aside and forget.

Trudy Lombard and all those awful months, locked away again where they belonged.

And when it was done, she thought, as she slid into traffic, sure, she'd take a few days off with Roarke. Go to their island, run around naked as monkeys, screw each other brainless in the sand. Grab some sun and surf and gear up for the long, cold winter to come.

Her link signalled again. "Dallas, what?"

"Hey, hi! Did you have a magolicious Christmas?"

"Mavis." Eve had to switch her mind, do a mental one-eighty. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I'm heading to work. Why don't I tag you later?"

"Okay, no prob. Just mostly wanted to be sure you and Roarke remember the coaching classes. Coming up in a couple weeks."

"No, I remember." The horror of it was etched on her mind like laser art on glass.

"Leonardo and I can go with you, if you want. Have some dinner or whatever after."

"Um. Sure. Sure. Ah, isn't this a little early for you to be awake?"

"Baby gets me up early. I guess it's good practice. Look, look what my honey pie made me with his own two hands!"

She held up some sort of short, footed thing—a kind of miniature skinsuit, Eve decided, in bloody-murder red with a lot of silver hearts and squiggles on it.

"Yeah. Wow."

"Because the baby'll be here before Valentine's Day. We're getting so close. What do you think of Berry?"

"What kind of berry?"

"No, for a name, because the baby will be like our sweet little berry, and it could go for a boy or a girl."

"Fine, as long as it doesn't mind being called Blueberry or Huckleberry or Boysenberry once it hits school-age."

"Oh, yeah. Ick. Well, we'll keep thinking. Catch you later."

Imagining an enormous piece of fruit with eyes and legs inside her friend's belly, Eve shuddered. To get rid of it, she contacted Whitney's office.

"Commander," she began when she was put through, "I've had a break in the Lombard homicide."

* * *

She took the elevator straight up from the garage, taking on the body jam for the sake of speed. She wanted to move now, move fast. It must've shown on her face, as Peabody jumped up from her desk the minute Eve came into the bull pen.

"Sir. Reo's on her way. I shot her the data, up to current, so she'd have a sense before you spoke with her. Aw, you're wearing the sweater I made you."

Baffled for a moment, Eve looked down. She'd been too distracted that morning to pay attention to something like wardrobe. But saw now she was wearing Peabody's sweater.

"Ah... it's warm, but light. I like it. It's... You made it?"

"Yeah. Both of them—Roarke's, too. And I made this really mag jacket for McNab. Worked on that up at Mavis's, so he wouldn't catch on. Been awhile since I did any serious weaving."

She reached out to fiddle with Eve's sleeve. "McNab sprang for the material, and we worked on the colors together. It looks good."

Momentarily baffled, Eve looked down at the sweater, soft and warm and in shades of heathery blue. "It's great." She didn't think anyone had ever made her a sweater, or much of anything else for that matter. Leonardo didn't count, she decided. It was his business.

"It's really great," she added. "Thanks."

"We wanted to do something unique, you know? Because you guys are. And personal. So I'm glad you like it."

"I do." Or did now that she knew it was Peabody's own work. Before that, it had just been a sweater.