Her vehicle gauge listed the ambient temperature as a hideous four degrees.
She hoped Roarke froze his Irish ass off.
Sitting in snarled traffic, she let her head drop down to the wheel. She’d handled it the wrong way. She didn’t know how the hell she should’ve handled it, but she knew she’d bungled it. Now he was going to be pissed at her when he met that…slut. That couldn’t be good strategy.
And why the hell should she need any strategy anyway?
“Forget it, forget it,” she told herself. “Barely a bump in the road.”
Still she steamed about it all the way downtown, brooded over it as she crammed herself in the crowded elevator up to Homicide.
She went straight to her office with barely a snarl for the bull pen. Closed the door, programmed coffee.
Work space, she reminded herself. No personal business allowed. That was it, that was all. She decided to drink her coffee and stare out her tiny window until her mind was clear enough to work.
She was still drinking, still staring, when, after a quick knock, Peabody walked in.
“Morning. How was the dinner thing?”
“I ate. Get your coat. We’re going to the vic’s apartment.”
“Now? Should I contact Lissette Foster to make sure she’s—”
“I said get your coat.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peabody didn’t speak again until they were in the car. “Did I miss something? Are we looking at Lissette as prime suspect?”
“When did you think we’d cleared her?”
“I didn’t, but I thought we felt she was an unlikely for this.”
“She had the opportunity. As for motive, spouses can always find one. Sometimes it’s just because you married an asshole. This is where we start.” She drove for a time in silence. “I want to see where he lived,” she said more calmly. “How he lived. How they lived. His body tells us he was a healthy man in his middle twenties who died from ingesting a lethal dose of ricin. That’s about all it tells us. That doesn’t mean that’s all the vic has to say.”
“Okay, I get that. Is everything all right?”
“No, it’s really not. But I’m not going to talk about it. Let’s do the job.” But the silence that dropped back was worse. Eve dragged a hand through her hair. “Talk about something else. You never shut the hell up most of the time. Talk about something else, for Christ’s sake.”
“Ummmm. I can’t think of anything. It’s too much pressure. Oh, oh! I know. Are you all set for tomorrow night?”
“Set for what?”
“Now.”
“If it’s now, it’s not tomorrow night. What did you smoke for breakfast?”
“All I had was rehydrated grapefruit. The holiday weight just won’t get the hell off me. It’s all cookies.” Peabody gave a mournful sigh. “My ass is entirely made up of cookies.”
“What kind? I like cookies.”
“Every kind,” Peabody said. “I have no strength against the mighty variety tin of Christmas cookies. My grandmother still makes them from scratch.”
“I thought cookies were made of sugar.”
“Scratch is from sugar—and flour and eggs and carob chips and butter. Mmmm, butter.” Peabody closed her eyes and dreamed of it. “Like from cows.”
“Cows are a milk thing.” Eve waited while a herd of pedestrians tromped across the crosswalk. “And I don’t understand why anyone wants to drink something that comes out of a cow like, well, piss.”