Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(102)

“You fired on police officers,” Eve reminded her.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know you were cops?”

“Because we identified ourselves as same.”

“Like that means dick.”

“You saw the vid? The Icove Agenda?”

“Sure. Every time I watch it, I root for you to get blown up in the Icove lab.” Smiling, Willow rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Maybe one day.”

“But you didn’t recognize me?”

“Only saw you for a second.”

“That would be the second before you tossed a flash grenade in a bid to escape.”

“Defense.” Willow shrugged again. “Doesn’t matter if I knew or not. I was defending myself and my home. I’ve got a right.”

“Willow, you knew who we were.” Peabody shook her head—the disapproving teacher. “This disrespect isn’t helping. Maybe you were taken by surprise, maybe you acted on impulse, instinct, but—”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“What were you doing with all those weapons?” Eve demanded.

“Keeping them secure.”

“Where did you get them?”

“Not mine, remember? I’m too young to buy or own weapons. Fifteen.” She grinned wide. “Remember?”

Teeth set, Eve shot a hard glance at Reo. “You were in possession of the weapons. You used several of the weapons.”

“I know how to take care of myself.”

“How did you learn to use the weapons, the laser rifles, the flash grenades, the handhelds?”

“My father taught me. He’s twice the cop you ever thought about being.”

“I guess that’s why I put him in a cage, where he’s going to stay for the rest of his life.”

“You only have him because he let you.”

“Is that so?”

“Fucking A, it’s so.”

“If you think I can’t bring a funky-junkie down, you didn’t pay attention to the vid.”

“Vid’s bullshit anyway. Just Hollywood crap.”

“Your father’s a junkie, and that’s no bullshit.”

“So he couldn’t hack it.” Lip curled, Willow jabbed out a finger. “See how you’d handle it if some fucker smeared your sugar daddy all over the pavement.”

“And the way to handle it was the funk for him, and planning how to kill everyone he blamed. Or having you do it because he can’t even hold a weapon steady these days.”

“So you say.”

“So I do. Do you want to deny it?”

Willow yawned, kicked back some to stare at the ceiling. “This is boring. You’re boring. Dallas,” she said, shifting her gaze to meet Eve’s. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. One of these days you’re not going to be wearing body armor. One of these days maybe you’ll just be walking down the street, and out of nowhere— Bang! You’re dead. Bet they won’t make a vid out of that.”

Eve kept her gaze steady, and she saw, clearly, what Zoe Younger had feared. She saw the killer inside. “You want me dead, Will?”

“I’d rather you were dead than me sitting here bored out of my mind.”

“Bored? Then let’s move it along. Stop wasting time. Let’s go back to Central Park. Three dead there. How did you pick them?”

“Who says I did?”

“Your father. He’s confessed. He called you his eyes, his hands. You made those strikes, Willow. He couldn’t pull it off.”

“I got my eyes and hands from him.”

“He ruined his own by going on the funk.”

Willow shrugged, then studied her fingernails. “That’s his deal, not mine. The way I look at it, drugs, alcohol, all that shit is bogus. They don’t keep it real.”

“You like it real.”

“What’s the point if you’re not feeling it? You’re not knowing it? You’re not doing it?”

Eve opened the file, took out photos of the first three victims. “How did you feel when you did this?”

Willow shifted forward, gave the photos a good, long study. What Eve saw in her eyes wasn’t curiousity or interest. It certainly wasn’t shock.

It was glee.

Not bored, Eve realized. Enthralled, excited, and stringing the process out. Because it kept her at the center.

“Those are primo strikes.” Willow paused to take a swig of her fizzy. “Anyone who can make strikes like that? They’re the elite.”

“Are you the elite?”

“No such thing as second best.” Smug, she tipped her fizzy side to side. “That’s just a wuss term for loser. It’s first, or it’s nothing.”

“So making strikes like this puts you in first, makes you elite.”

“Could you do it?”

“Can’t say.” Now Eve shrugged. “Never tried. Then again, I’m not interested in killing somebody a mile away while they skate around on an ice rink.”

“You couldn’t, and that’s bottom line. I’m guessing you can barely hit the mark at anything over ten yards with your sidearm, much less handle a long-range weapon with any accuracy. You’d’ve missed by that mile, zipped some asshole bopping down Fifty-Second Street.”