Vengeance in Death (In Death #6)(63)

“Where’s Summerset?”

“In his quarters.”

“Sulking?”

“Painting, I believe. He thought it would relax him. And where are you, Lieutenant?”

“On my way in to Central for a while. Just wrapped up a press conference.”

“And we know how much you enjoy them. I’ll be sure to tune in for the five-thirty.”

She didn’t wince, at least not visibly. “I wouldn’t bother. It was pretty dull. Look, I figured you’d be at your headquarters. There’s no reason to put your world on hold because of this.”

“My world continues to revolve. I can handle details from here for a bit longer. Besides, Ian and I are having such a good time playing with our toys.”

“Getting anywhere?”

“I think so. It’s slow.”

“I’ll take a look when I get there. Couple of hours.”

“Fine. I believe we’re having pizza.”

“Good, make mine loaded. See you.”

She cut transmission as she drove into the underground lot at Central. She took a minute to curse, as Lieutenant Medavoy from Anti-Crime had once again parked crookedly and infringed on her space. She squeezed in, indulged herself by rapping her door smartly against the side of his vehicle.

A new one, too, she thought, noting the shiny surface now nicely dinged. Where the hell does Anti-Crime get the budget?

Fifteen minutes to air, she noted as she took the glide into the core of Central. She’d get herself some coffee, lock her office door, and watch the show.

She wasn’t disappointed. Her impromptu statement to Nadine came across exactly as intended. She’d appeared furious, overconfident, and reckless. It was going to bum his ass, she decided, and wondered if she had time for another cup of coffee before Whitney summoned her.

She didn’t have time for another sip.

She accepted the expected dressing down without argument or excuse, agreed that her comments had been unwise and over-emotional.

“No pithy remarks, Lieutenant?”

“No, sir.”

“What are you up to here, Dallas?”

She shifted gears swiftly, smoothly, realizing she’d been just a bit too conciliatory. “My armpit’s in this investigation, one that is causing a great deal of stress on my personal life. I blew off steam, and I apologize. It won’t happen again.”

“Be sure that it doesn’t, and contact Ms. Furst. I want you to offer her another one-on-one, this time with you in control of your emotions.”

Eve didn’t have to feign the annoyance now. “I’d like to avoid the media for the near future, Commander. I think — “

“That wasn’t a request, Lieutenant. It was an order. You made the mess, now clean it up. And quickly.”

Eve closed her mouth, teeth first, and nodded.

She worked off her temper for the next hour by dealing with paperwork, and when that didn’t do the trick, she contacted maintenance and scalded their ears over the as-yet unrepaired guidance system in her vehicle. Calmer, she drafted an e-message for Nadine offering another interview and shot it off before she could brood about it.

And throughout it all she waited for her ‘link to beep. She wanted him to call, willed him to call. The sooner he made his move, the sloppier he would be.

Who is he? Sociopath, sadist, egotist. Yet, there was something weak and sad and even pathetic about him. Riddles and religion, she mused. Well, that wasn’t so strange. Religion was a riddle to her. Believe this, and only this, because we say so. If you don’t you’re buying a one-way ticket to everlasting Hell.

Organized religion baffled her, made her vaguely uncomfortable. Each had followers who were so sure they were right, that their way was the only way. And throughout history they’d fought wars and shed oceans of blood to prove it.

Eve shrugged, idly picked up one of the three statues of the Madonna she’d lined on her desk. She’d been raised by the state, and a state education was forbidden, by law, to include even a whiff of religious training. Church groups were forever lobbying to change that, but Eve thought she’d done well enough. She’d formed her own opinions. There was right and wrong, the law and chaos, crime and punishment.

Still, religion, at its best, was supposed to guide and to comfort, wasn’t it? She glanced at the pile of discs she’d amassed in her research of the Catholic faith. It remained a mystery to her, but she thought it was supposed to. That was its core, the mystery shrouded in pomp and pageantry. And its rituals were lovely and visually appealing.

Like the Virgin. Eve turned the statue in her hand, studying it. What had Roarke called her? The BVM. It made her sound friendly, accessible, like someone you could take your troubles to.

I can’t quite work this one out, I’ll ask the BVM.

Yet she was the holiest of women. The ultimate female figure. The Virgin Mother who’d been called on to bear the Son of God, then watch him die for the sins of man.

Now there was a madman using her image, twisting it, using it to stand witness to man’s inhumanity to man.

But mother was the key, wasn’t it? she mused. His mother, or someone he viewed as that figure of love and authority.

Eve couldn’t remember her mother. Even in the dreams she was powerless to control there was nothing and no one in that role. No voice soft in lullaby or raised in anger, no hand stroking gently or slapping in annoyance.