Treachery in Death (In Death #32)(35)

Daddy issues, Eve thought again. Boo f**king hoo.

“She’s vain,” Mira went on, “she’s confident, she’s highly intelligent, and she’s ruthless. She views her name as her legacy and her right, as a stepping stone she doesn’t hesitate to use when it suits her. And also as a dragging weight around her neck.”

“I can use all of that.”

“She won’t like you. Even outside this situation, she wouldn’t like you. You’re everything she’s not, as well as an attractive—younger—woman in power. That makes you a threat. She’s disposed to eliminate or crush those who threaten her.”

“I’m hoping she’ll try. Focused on me, she’s less likely to get any buzz about the internal investigation. Right now, it’s all about me and the homicide. She’s worried about that. I think she knew we’d found Keener before I told her, and was, I’d say, already discussing it with Garnet. She had to think on her feet when I talked to her because she was sure it would be passed off as an OD. Quick skim, who cares, over and done. Now she’s got to worry because I made it clear I smell murder, and I’m going to push it.”

“She won’t come at you directly, not yet,” Mira said. “She’ll need to weigh the situation, you, see what you do, what buttons you push, what doors you open, if any. But make no mistake, Eve, if she concludes you’re in the way, you’re too big a threat, she’ll try to take you out.”

“Yeah, probably with this big, blond detective. I need to check on him.” She glanced at her wrist unit. The day was moving too damn fast. “But now I’ve got to go to the morgue.”

“Don’t underestimate her, Eve.”

“I don’t intend to. I’ve got a briefing at my home office—sixteen hundred.”

“Do you want me there?”

“I can take the team through Renee’s profile, but you’d be valuable. We’re going to have to work through her squad, so any insights you’ve got on any of them would help.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Thanks.” Eve went to the door, hesitated, turned. “She should be a good cop. She’s got the foundation, the resources, the brains, the training. It’s nobody’s fault but hers how she chose to use them.”

The day’s moving, Eve thought again as she went quickly back to Homicide. Several things checked off, and that was good. But she wanted to squeeze in time to study the murder board Peabody should have set up in her office, time to peek into the data on the members of Renee’s squad.

And maybe let it show, she considered. Yeah, maybe send a flag or two there. Give her something to think about.

She paused at the bullpen, took a good look around.

The noise level hit somewhere between EDD and Renee’s squad—which she judged as normal. Cops worked in shirtsleeves, and there were plenty of hard shoes and boots showing wear and tear. It smelled like really horrible coffee, a hint of sweat, and somebody’s veggie hash. Which meant Reineke was probably on a diet again.

Desks weren’t especially tidy, photos, printouts—some of them likely bad or obscene jokes—papered cubes and workstations.

Jacobson sat kicked back in his chair juggling three colored balls—his thinking mode, she knew. Someone had recently hung a rubber chicken over the new guy’s desk, which meant he—Santiago—was sliding into the team and the rhythm.

To her mind it looked, sounded, smelled, and felt like cop.

She walked into her office, nodded at the murder board, hit the AutoChef for coffee.

Skinny window—she thought the cleaners occasionally wiped it down. Overloaded desk—but she’d clean up the paperwork. Ancient file cabinet because she liked the backup—plus it was an excellent hiding place. Old AutoChef that still did the job, fairly new C&D that wasn’t yet giving her grief. The recycler worked, and as far as she knew was still a successful secret spot for her personal cache of candy.

She had her roster, rotation, case status on a wallboard because she liked being able to glance at it quickly rather than calling it up on the comp every time she had to change or check or adjust.

Deliberately horrible visitor’s chair, because who had time for chatty sessions anyway? Her desk was old, scarred, and serviceable, and like Jacobson she liked to think with her boots up.

The office didn’t open into the bullpen—there was a little jog first. But unless she was catching ten of downtime stretched out on the floor or needed absolute privacy, her door was always open.

She took the time to drink her coffee, to study her murder board, to consider her next steps. Before she took them she texted Roarke rather than tagging him in the middle of his workday.

Briefing HQ, 1600. Promised food. OK?

There, she thought, that covered the marriage rules, plus shifted to Roarke—she hoped—the obligation to inform Summerset he’d be feeding a bunch of cops.

“Peabody,” she said as she crossed through the bullpen again, “with me.”

Peabody scrambled to catch up as Eve hit the glide. “Murder book and board in your office.”

“I saw. I informed Lieutenant Oberman of the death of her weasel.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Always tough to lose a CI. She’ll pass me all data on the vic, after we verify COD. She doesn’t buy homicide.” Eve shrugged carelessly for whatever eyes and ears might catch any part of the conversation. “Then again, she’s a desk jockey who doesn’t work murders.”