Visions in Death (In Death #19)(77)

She waited a beat. "Still awake?"

"Barely."

"If you're thinking Celina's got some mojo vengeance thing going because of Grande and Sommers, I don't see it. Doesn't work that way anyhow."

"What doesn't work that way? You just said depends about six million times."

"The psychic angle doesn't work that way. It's not like she could put a spell on some guy, have him go around whacking women and make sure one of them was Sommers. Second, she came to us. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have made a blip on the investigative radar when Sommers got dead. Third, all evidence points to the fact that Sommers went into the park voluntarily and alone. Then there's the profile. Guy's a loner, a woman hater, and a predator."

"You're right, all the way down the line. I guess I don't like paranormal logic, which smacks mightily of coincidence."

"I think there's another factor working in your head."

Eve said nothing for a long moment. "Okay. I don't like the whole setup. Depending on psychic visions or hypnosis. And I don't like Sanchez depending on me to bolster her up or hold her hand."

"No more room at the Dallas Inn for another friend?"

"Full up. Maybe if one of you moved off-planet or met with a tragic accident I could juggle another one in."

"Come on. You like her."

"Yeah, so what? Do we have to be pals just because I like her? Does that mean we have to start hanging? Am I supposed to give her the last damn cookie now?"

Peabody laughed, patted Eve's arm. "There, there. You'll get through this trial. You had a good time last night."

Now Eve wanted to sulk, but she put her energy into scouting for a parking space. "Yeah, yeah. And don't think I don't know how this stuff works. Now we have to have everybody over to our place. Then you're going to have to have us over to yours, and—"

"We're already planning on having a housewarming party."

"See? See?" She zipped, with a deliberate recklessness she knew would have Peabody's heart stuffed into her throat, up to a second-level curbside. "It never ends. Once you start, you can't get off the friendship ride. You just keep circling around and around and around, with more people trying to cram on. Now I have to buy you a goddamn present just because you're shacked up in a new place."

"We could really use some nice wineglasses." She was laughing as she climbed out of the car. "You know, Dallas, you're pretty lucky in your friends, of which I am one. They're smart and fun and loyal. And diverse. I mean, could Mavis and Mira be any more different? But they both love you. Then the chilly thing happens, and your friends get to be friends."

"Yeah, and they go out and make other ones, and I get stuck with somebody like Trina." Self-consciously, she ran a hand over the back of her hair.

"She's unique." They walked down to street level. "And you've got a man like Roarke, so you'll never lack for cookies."

Eve blew out a breath. "Wineglasses?"

"We don't have any nice ones, like for company."

———«»——————«»——————«»———

Eve had felt more at home in Jim's Gym than she did in the high-end clothing store for the discerning king-sized man.

The shop was three floors: the main with one up and one down. Since the one down dealt with foot apparel—couldn't they just call it shoes and socks?—they headed down.

It seemed, she discovered, foot apparel didn't just mean shoes and socks. It included house slippers, boots, something called leg slickers—with or without belly control panels. There were shoe protectors, shoe boxes, heating inserts, foot and ankle jewelry, and any number of products that dealt with foot care or decoration.

Who knew there was so much involved dealing with a guy's feet?

The salesman she approached gave her the usual hem and haw before striding off to contact the store manager.

Eve zeroed in on the shoes in question while she waited.

Sturdy, she decided, hefting one. Practical and efficient, and well-made from the look of it. She wouldn't mind having a pair herself.

"Madam?"

"Lieutenant," she corrected and turned with the shoe in hand. And had to take a step back, angle her head up to make eye contact.

He was seven feet if he was an inch, and skinny as the beanpoles she'd seen in Greenpeace Park. His skin was dark as a new moon so that the whites of his eyes, his teeth, gleamed like ice. As she gave him the once-over, his mouth quirked in a little smile that told her he was used to it.

"Madam Lieutenant," he said, very smoothly. "I'm Kurt Richards, the store manager."

"Power forward?"

He seemed pleased. "Yes. For the Knicks once upon a time. Most people automatically ask if I played basketball, but rarely guess the position."

"I don't get the chance to follow much round ball. I bet you moved over the boards."

"I like to think so. I've been retired nearly eight years now. It's a young man's game, as most are." He took the shoe from her. His palms were so wide, his fingers so long, it no longer looked outsized. "And you're interested in the Mikon Avalanche?"