Six hundred twenty-four subjects remaining ...
"Shit." She turned back to study the photos. "Eliminate all subjects over the age of forty-five and under the age of twenty-one."
Working . . . Task complete.
"Okay, all right." She began to pace as she thought it through. Grabbing her hard-copy file, she pushed through paperwork. "First-timers," she muttered. "They were all first-timers. Eliminate all subjects with repeated consults from Personally Yours. Recalibrate remaining."
Working. . .
This time the machine bogged and rattled. Eve gave it an impatient smack with the heel of her hand.
"Piece of shit," she muttered, and set her teeth as the machine whined again.
Task. . . complete.
"Don't you start stuttering on me. Number remaining?"
Two hundred six names remaining.
"Better. Much better. Print amended list."
While her machine chewed and spit out data, Eve turned to her 'link and contacted EDD. "Feeney, I've got just over two hundred names. I need them checked out. Can you run them? See how many have left the city, how many got themselves matched or married, died in their sleep, are on vacation at Planet Disney?"
"Shoot them over."
"Thanks." She glanced up as she heard a stream of whistles and catcalls from the detective's bull pen. "It's a priority," she told him and logged off just as a flushed and flustered Peabody walked in.
"Jesus, you'd think those morons hadn't seen me out of uniform before. Henderson offered to leave his wife and kids for a weekend with me in Barbados."
But, from the gleam in her eye, Peabody didn't appear to be too displeased by the reaction.
Eve frowned. Her aide's face was painted and polished, her hair fluffed. Her legs were showcased in a short, snug skirt and stiletto-heeled boots, both the color of ripe raspberries.
"How the hell do you walk in that getup?" Eve wanted to know.
"I practiced."
Eve inhaled deeply, then blew out air. "Sit down, let's go over the plan."
"Okay, but it takes me a couple of minutes to get down in this skirt." Cautious, Peabody braced a hand on the edge of the desk and began to lower her butt.
"You going to do squats or sit the hell down?"
"Just a second." She sucked in air, winced a little. "Little tight in the waist," she managed as she eased down.
"You should have thought of your internal organs before you poured yourself into that thing. You've got an hour before you're due at Personally Yours. I want you to -- "
"What the hell are you doing in that?" McNab stopped at the doorway, his eyes bugged out as they skimmed along Peabody's legs.
"My job," she said with a sniff.
"You're just asking to get hit on. Dallas, make her wear something else."
"I'm not a fashion consultant, McNab. And if I were" -- Eve took the time to study his baggy red and white striped trousers and butter-yellow turtleneck -- "I might have something to say about your wardrobe choices."
At Peabody's snicker, Eve narrowed her eyes. "Now, children, you may be aware that we're working multiple homicides at this time. If you can't be friends, I'm afraid I'll have to limit your playground time this afternoon."
Peabody immediately squared her shoulders, and though she slid a sneering look toward McNab, she was wise enough to say nothing.