Obsession in Death (In Death #40)(68)

“Read between the lines,” Eve noted.

“Yeah. She says that sort of thing in different ways. And then there’s how she keeps hammering how much you have in common – and how strong and brave and smart you are. How important you are.”

And reading between the lines, Eve nodded. “Because she wants to feel that way, wants that reflected back on her.” Eve thought of the dream, the blurry reflection, and understood she’d already gotten to that in some part of her brain. “If she’s a cop, she hasn’t climbed the ranks. If she’s periphery, she’s competent, likely considered a solid asset, but doesn’t draw a lot of attention.”

“Or accolades,” Peabody added. “She wants them, don’t you think? But she’s too afraid to push herself out there? Maybe?”

“I need to talk to Mira. Again.” She checked the time. “If she could come by here, or I could go by there before she goes into Central, I think we could add to the profile. Use the auxiliary, Peabody. Start going through the names the rest of the team sent in. For now, just the women.”

“If you’ve zeroed in, they won’t find her in your correspondence.”

“Maybe she slipped up. It would only take once.”

Eve sat down to contact Mira, annoyed when an incoming e-mail interrupted. She started to ignore, then checked the sender’s address in case it applied to the investigation.

DLE#[email protected].

She clicked it open, hit copy, reached for the house ’link.

“I’ve got a fresh one, just came in, forwarding to you,” she told Roarke.

“It’s coming through now. Starting the trace.”

She read as they worked, said nothing as Peabody jumped up to read over her shoulder.

Eve,

I failed. I failed you, failed myself. I hope you can forgive me. I know you will, but it will be harder to forgive myself. He should be dead, with his ugly eyes destroyed.

He should be dead.

You would ask, as I do, what a woman like Matilda is doing with such a vicious, violent man? Some women are weak, some women almost ask for mistreatment, abuse, disrespect. Her weakness saved his life. My miscalculation saved him.

I know you see some redeeming quality in him. That’s your compassion, I suppose. Or is it a weakness? I hate to think that. But is it, Eve, is it a weakness in you, a flaw in what I so want to see as perfection? Is this why you tolerate disrespect from those so unworthy? Is this why you follow the rules that too often protect the guilty and ignore the innocent, the victim?

I don’t want to believe it. I want to believe that justice is your god, as it is mine. I want to believe you celebrate with me on the death of two people who not only abused you but were responsible for injustice and rewarding the guilty.

I’ve begun to doubt this is true. Are you one of them after all, Eve? Calling for justice while subverting it?

We have to think. We have to be sure. I’ve killed for you, and now I find myself wondering if you’re worthy of the gift, of my friendship and my devotion – something you rejected publicly.

How that hurt me, to hear you say, so coldly, “inaccurate.”

Have I let you down, Eve, or have you let me down? I have to know. For now, I struggle to remain

Your true friend.

Peabody laid a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “She’s turned on you.”

Nodding slowly, Eve felt the faint sickness she’d carried since she’d read the first message burn away. “About f*cking time.”

14

“Smart, she’s a smart girl,” Roarke murmured.

At his station he worked on the trace manually while McNab stood at another station, tick-tocking his hips while he ran an auto-trace.

“Got chops,” McNab agreed. “Got flex. Bounce and swerve, echo it, pass on, bounce again. Got a fence line here, too, and a wall behind it.”

“I see it, yes. And the bloody pit beyond it.”

“Watch the three-sixty,” McNab warned. “Virus.”

“Aye, but a distraction’s all it is. Does she think we’re a couple of gits? She’s set a Dragon’s Tail under it, Ian.”

“Crap, crap. Got it.”

Eve burst in, Peabody right behind her. “Do you have her?”

“Quiet!” Roarke snapped, and sat, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back. Full work mode.

“She wants to play.” Now McNab’s shoulders wiggled into his e-geek dance. “I got trip spikes here. Man! Then a trip to fricking Bali.”

Roarke’s flying fingers paused a moment. He angled his head, danced those fingers in the air. “It’s bollocks is what it is. Misdirection and false layers. I’m doing a clean sweep.”

“Jesus, are you sure?”

“Sure enough.”

“How come they can talk?” Eve complained.

“It’s how it works. Uh-oh,” Peabody said when Roarke’s screen went blank.

“Fuck, f*ck, lost her.” Eve rushed forward.

“Quiet!” Roarke snapped again, and played the keyboard like a concert pianist hyped on Zeus. Weird lines of some sort of code jumped on one screen, a world map shimmered onto another.

Eve watched arching lines spear across the map.

“Underlayment,” Roarke mumbled.