“Yeah, he does. But shady’s a leap away from cop killer. I’m going to work from home. You get anything, I want to hear about it.”
“Back at you. I didn’t know the lady, but she was a badge. And there’s Morris. You got EDD, and me, round the clock until we put this one away.”
She walked over to Peabody, who was in a huddle with her cohab, McNab, and his EDD pal, Callendar.
McNab stood jingling whatever would jingle in two of the pockets of his maxicargo fire-red pants. His blond hair was braided back from his thin, pretty face to hang down the back of his lightweight daffodil-yellow jacket. Beside him, Callendar was a busty explosion of color in a zigzag-patterned T-shirt, floppy overshirt, and glossy pants.
“Pizza hits all the notes.” Callendar chomped on gum so her jaw movements sent the huge triangles dangling from her ears jumping. “You buy.”
“I’m on for pizza, but the tab’s a grab.” McNab held out a fist, and Eve’s eyes narrowed as the two e-detectives went through the first round of Rock Paper Scissors.
“Gee, I’m sorry to interrupt playtime, but there’s this pesky chore of hunting down a cop killer.”
“We’re on it.” McNab turned earnest green eyes to hers. “We’re going to hunker down in the pen. We’re just settling on the fuel and the buy.”
“I cleared the night for it, Lieutenant,” Callendar told her. “But you gotta prime the pump. We took eight desk units, twelve wall, and sixteen portables out of those digs. Anything on there bouncing to Detective Coltraine, we’re going to find it.”
But pumps had to be primed. Eve dug into her own pockets. “Pizza’s on me. Peabody, I’m working from home. You can coordinate the search-and-seizure results, log it all in. Cross all the t’s. After that, choose where you’re most useful.”
“Got that. One thing.” She quick-stepped with Eve toward Eve’s vehicle. “If Ricker and company hauled equipment or anything out of there, it should be on the building’s security discs. So we should—”
“I’ve got them. I’m going to scan them at home.”
“Oh.” Peabody’s face registered mild disappointment. “I guess I should’ve figured you’d think of it. I just didn’t want to say anything about it while we were inside, and on record.”
“It’s good you thought of it.”
“Well. Oh, and one more thing. If you think we should reschedule Louise’s bridal shower and all, I can take care of it.”
“Crap.” Eve pushed a hand through her hair. “I forgot about it.” Again. “No, just leave it. We’ll see. If you talk to Nadine about that, and she uses it to try to pump you—”
“The investigation is active and ongoing. We’re pursuing all leads. Blah, blah.”
“Okay then.” Eve climbed into her car.
She made the tail within three blocks. In fact, it was so sloppy a shadow, she felt insulted.
Late-model, nondescript black sedan. Tinted windows. New York plates. She noted the plate numbers, turned to add a few blocks to her drive home. The sedan made the turn, huddled back two car lengths. She considered pulling over, seeing if her tail would follow suit to drive past, then scramble to double back.
Instead, she allowed herself to be caught at the next light while the river of pedestrians flowed in front of her. Why would Ricker hire such a shitty tail? she wondered. A man with his connections, his reach ought to be able to put someone with more skill, and more technology on her.
A homer on her car—or at the least a three-point tail that could mix it up. In this traffic, she might’ve missed it. Stupid, amateur move, she decided. Maybe she’d drive around awhile, waste their time, see if they’d swing up close enough so she could use her car to barricade then roust them.
Meanwhile, she might as well find out who owned the sedan.
She engaged her dash comp. “Run vehicle registration, New York. Eight, six, three, Zulu, Bravo, Echo.”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
When the light turned, she eased across the crosswalk, flicked a glance in the rearview.
She caught the van out of the corner of her eye. Pinned by cross traffic, she had nowhere to turn. As it barrelled down on her, she punched the accelerator and hit vertical.
“Come on, you piece of shit. Come on.” For an instant, she thought she might make it, but the speeding van caught her sluggishly-lifting rear wheels. The impact slapped her back in the seat. As the car spun, executed a clumsy nosedive toward Madison Avenue, it filled with safety gel.
She thought: Fuck. And crashed.
She heard it—sounds muffled by the gel—the smash, crunch, screech. She went into another sloping three-sixty as the car that had been directly behind her at the light slammed her front fender. Or more accurately, she slammed it. Despite the gel, she felt the jolt slap through her whole body.