Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(53)

“Lucky me. Thanks.”

Eve started for the car. “If you have any orgies with McNab, do it early and get some sleep. We’re going to have another tomorrow. There’ll be another.”

“We could get lucky.”

Eve glanced up toward the windows of the * she’d just interviewed. “Not so far.”

11

When Eve arrived home she sat in the car a moment, studying the holiday decorations – trees and candles in the windows, lights strung, greenery swagged.

Considering it, she carted file bags into the house.

“Should I assume an impending apocalypse,” Summerset wondered, “as you’re home early and show no signs of injury?”

Eve eyed him narrowly as she shrugged out of her coat. “Should I assume you have a pulse as the cadaver I just visited shows more signs of life than you? When do they come to take this stuff down?” she asked, gesturing wide to indicate the decorations.

“Traditionally on Twelfth Night.”

“When the hell is that?”

“January fifth. The company will begin and complete the removal while you and Roarke are scheduled to be away.”

“Okay.” So no chance the killer could come in posing as one of the crew while she wasn’t around, because she wasn’t going anywhere until she had him.

She remembered the surprise on Christmas Eve, and the blueprints Roarke showed her. “When does work on the dojo start?”

“Right after the holiday.”

“January second.” Might have to hold off on that, which was too damn bad, but she didn’t want anyone in the house she didn’t know. “Mix up your routine,” she told him as she started up the stairs. “Your out-of-the-house routine. The shopping, the visiting gravesites, haunting houses with the other ghouls – whatever it is you do. Mix it up for the next few days.”

“I have a scheduled haunting tonight, but it can be postponed.”

“Good, do that.” She glanced back. “Seriously. And…” She thought of Nadine, nearly smiled. “Watch your six.”

She went straight to her office, updated her board, set up for reviewing the discs from Nadine, from Mason, intended to update her book with the details of her interview with the horndog.

But the headache plagued her, and her own face staring back from the board brought on a simmering fury she couldn’t seem to bank.

“Screw it. Screw it for one hour.”

She detoured to the bedroom, where the cat made himself comfortable on the bed. He rolled over, stretched, yawned, then watched her with mild interest as she stripped down, pulled on shorts and a tank, dug out running shoes.

She sat on the side of the bed to put them on. Galahad stirred himself to belly over, bump his head to her hip.

“Crap mood. All crap. Gonna work it off.” She gave him a long stroke, poked a finger in his pudgy belly. “It wouldn’t hurt you to get in a workout, pal.”

Rising, she went to the elevator, headed down to the gym.

The dojo would open from it, through soundproofed pocket doors. All natural materials, she thought now, in a clean and simple space – one for serious practice. Full holo function included.

And still it would boast its own little meditation garden with miniature fountain. And a tidy little area behind bamboo screens for a friggie, AutoChef, sink, and so on.

Roarke did nothing half-assed, she considered, and thought it would be too damn bad if she didn’t bag her quarry, and the project had to be put off until she did.

Too personal, damn it. All of it, too personal, and bleeding over into her home.

Yeah, she needed to sweat out the mood.

She opted for the halo tread. Her usual choice here would be the beach. Nothing like running on sand with sea breezes. But now she programmed it for urban streets, with obstacles, pumped up the difficulty.

She set out on a hard run, strides ringing with the virtual sound of boot heels on sidewalk. Dodging pedestrians, catching whiffs of cart dogs and a busted recycler. Weaving through vehicular traffic across an intersection where a pair of street thieves snagged the carelessly swinging purse of a woman in an I New York shirt. Kicking up more speed, she tackled the nearest street thief, whipped on restraints before charging after his partner.

New elements, she thought, pleased with the challenge. Roarke had been fiddling, adding some elements and upgrades. When she engaged in hand-to-hand with the second thief, she knew he’d fiddled with the programming with her in mind.

And no, he did nothing half-assed.

Thirty minutes down, and she’d topped out her heart rate, had broken a good sweat – and had a couple of virtual street thieves in custody.

She switched to hand weights, worked her oiled muscles with curls, flies, squats, lunges, kickbacks, presses, pushing through three sets.

The headache settled into a dull throb at the back of her skull, an improvement, but she couldn’t shake the mood.

The killer made a kind of victim of her, as well as a motive. She wouldn’t tolerate it, couldn’t. Yet even now he might be moving on the next target, and there was nothing she could do.

She set the weights back on the rack. She knew what she wanted – had wanted all along. But now she was pumped and sweaty and pissed. And ready.

She moved on to the sparring droid, studying it – a new one – as she laced on light gloves.