He knew she wouldn’t like it, but he needed it, so caught her chin in his hand and kissed her, hard and brief, before walking away.
“Awww.” Peabody sighed a little as she hustled out of the war room behind Eve. “That’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, ass-kickings are sugar in our house. Locker room. Vests.”
“Vests? That would be more than one?”
“I wear one, you wear one.”
“Aw,” Peabody repeated, but in an entirely different tone.
In under forty minutes they were in the garage, vested and wired. Peabody tugged on her jacket. “This makes me look fat, doesn’t it? I know it makes me look fat, and I’m still carrying a couple pounds of winter weight.”
“We’re not trying to distract the son of a bitch with your frosty figure, Peabody.”
“Easy for you to say.” Shifting, she tried to get a look at her reflection in a side-view mirror. “This damn thing thickens my entire middle, which doesn’t need any help in that area. I look like a stump. A tree stump.”
“Stumps don’t have arms and legs.”
“They have branches. But I guess if they have branches, they aren’t technically stumps. So what I look like is a stunted tree.” She dropped into the passenger seat. “I now have extra motivation for taking this bastard down. He’s made me look like a stunted tree.”
“Yeah, we’re going to fry his ass for that one.” Eve pulled out. “Watch for a tail. Activate, Dallas,” she said to test the recorder. “You copy?”
“Eyes and ears five-by-five,” Feeney responded. “Shadow will hang back, minimum of three blocks.”
“Copy that, remaining open while in the field.”
They took the former dead wagon rider first. He’d done well for himself, Eve mused. Had a dignified old brownstone all to himself in a quiet West Village neighborhood.
A droid answered the door—a stupendously designed female Eve would have gauged as more usual in the sexual gratification department than the domestic. Smoky eyes, smoky voice, smoky hair, all in a snug black skin-suit.
“If you’d like to wait in the foyer, I’ll tell Mr. Dobbins you’re here.” She walked off—more slinked off, Eve thought, like a lithe and predatory feline.
“If all she does is vacuum around here,” Peabody commented, “I’m a size two.”
“She may vacuum, after she polishes the old man’s brass.”
“Women are so crude,” Roarke said in her ear.
“Mute the chatter.” Eve studied the foyer.
More of a wide hallway, she noted, with the light coming in through the front door’s ornate glass panel. Doors on either side, kitchen area probably in the back. Bedrooms upstairs.
A lot of room for a man to shuffle around in.
He did just that, shuffled in on bunged-up slippers. He wore baggy sweats, and had his near-shoulder-length hair combed back and dyed a hard and improbable black.
His face was too thin, his mouth too full, his body too slight to be the man both Trina and Loni had spoken with.
“Mr. Dobbins.”
“That’s right. I want to see some identification, or you’re both turning right back around.”
He studied Eve’s badge, then Peabody’s, his mouth moving silently as he read. “All right then, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in Chelsea,” Eve began.
“That Groom business.” Dobbins wagged a finger. “I read the papers, I watch the news, don’t I? If you people did your jobs and protected people you wouldn’t have to come around here asking me questions. Cops come around here years ago when that girl across the street was murdered.”