"I always figured most PO's have a really good bullshit barometer. How about you, Feeney?"
"Working with cons every day, hearing all the stories, the excuses, the crapola." Lips pursed, he nodded. "Yep, I gotta figure a PO with any experience is going smell out the bs."
"She aced all the tests," Otto began.
"Wouldn't be the first to know how to maneuver the techs and questions and machines. Where'd she bang you, Otto?" Eve asked pleasantly. "Here in the office, or did she get you to take her home with you?"
"You can't sit there and accuse me of having a sexual relationship with a client."
"Client, Christ. These politically correct terms are starting to piss me off. I'm not accusing you, Otto." Eve leaned forward. "I know you fucked her. I don't really give a damn, and I'm not interested in reporting that fact to your superiors. She's a piece of work and you'd have been child's play for her. You can be grateful she just wanted you to help push her through, and didn't want you dead."
"She passed the tests," he said and his voice shook. "She didn't make waves. Her slate was clean. I believed her. I'm not the only one who believed her, so don't dump this on me. We've got scum oozing through here every day, and the law says if they don't blow their parole obligations, we funnel them back into society. Julianna wasn't scum. She was ... different."
"Yeah." Disgusted, Eve got to her feet. "She's different."
* * *
The first breath of fresh air of the day came in a crowded, dingy diner that smelled of badly fried food. The place was jammed with cops, and across the little table, Lieutenant Frank Boyle and Captain Robert Spindler chowed down on turkey sandwiches the size of Hawaii.
"Julianna." Spindler dabbed a condiment masquerading as mayo off his bottom lip. "Face of an angel, soul of a shark. Coldest, meanest bitch I ever met."
"You're forgetting my first wife," Boyle reminded him. "Hard to believe we're back here, the four of us, damn near ten years later." Boyle had a cheerful Irish face, until you looked in his eyes. They were hard and flat, and just a little scary.
Eve could see the signs of too much drinking, too much brooding in the red puffiness in his jowls, the souring droop of his mouth.
"We put out feelers," Spindler continued. "Fed the media, bumped up her old contacts. We've got nothing new on her." He'd kept his looks, militarily clean-cut, trim, authoritative. "We've got nothing on her, nothing to indicate she's blown our way. I went to her parole hearing," he continued. "Made a personal pitch that she be denied. Brought case files, documentation. Got nowhere. She sat there, like a perfect lady, eyes downcast, hands folded, the faintest glimmer of tears. If I didn't know her like I know her, I might've bought the act myself."
"You know anything about a funky junkie inside? Lois Loop?"
"Doesn't ring," Spindler said.
"She was Julianna's gofer, sounding board, slave. Whatever. She was starting to jones when I interviewed her. I got some info, but she may have more. Maybe you can work her again. She told me Julianna was going to New York to see the bone man. Pettibone. And there was a sheep man. Can you think of anyone who fits her standard target who has sheep in his name?"
Both Boyle and Spindler shook their heads. "But we'll run it through," Spindler promised. "See what pops."
"Also a cowboy and the Dallas dude."
"Sounds like she's thinking of heading down to Texas and paying a call on her stepfather." Boyle took another enormous bite of his sandwich. "Unless you're the Dallas, and she's looking at your dude."
Eve ignored the clutching in her stomach. "Yeah, that's occurred. We'll notify Dallas PSD. I can take care of my own dude. New L.A. and Denver were other cities this Loopy remembered. I'm betting if her mind was clearer, she'd remember more."
"I'll take a pass at her." Boyle glanced at Spindler. "If that suits you ... Captain."
"Likes to remind me I got the bars. Not much more we can do for you. Frankly, I'd like to see you take her down in New York. I'd miss the party, but fuck if I want her dropped back in Dockport."
* * *
She was back in New York by five, and opted to head home instead of swinging into Central. She'd work there and reassure herself of Roarke's safety.
He didn't fit target profile, she reminded herself. He was too young, had no ex-wife. But he also had a wife who'd played a large part in bringing Julianna down.
She was nearly home when she made an impulsive detour and headed to Dr. Mira's.
She parked in a loading zone a half block down, flipped on her on duty light, then jogged to the dignified old brownstone. There were soft pink and white flowers in pale blue pots cheering up the entrance. A woman one door up led out an enormous dog with long golden hair decorated with red bows. It sent Eve a friendly woof, then pranced away with its owner as if they were off to a parade.
On the other side, a trio of boys burst outside, whooping like maniacs. Each carried a fluorescent airboard and zipped away down the sidewalk like rockets off a launch pad.
A man in a business suit with a palm-link stuck to his ear had to dodge clear, but rather than shouting or shaking a fist after them, he only chuckled, kept talking as he turned toward the door of another townhouse.