“As in doo
rnail. Whatever the hell that is.”
“That’s a story—but the team can handle it. I’m having sex with Bruno. Very shortly now.” But she tipped down her gold-tinted sunshades, and her eyes were foxy and keen behind them. “You’re primary.”
“Yeah. The killer left a message. For me.”
“You?” Now Nadine straightened, pulled off the sunshades, and the smug smile vanished. “A threat?”
“No. This is off the record, Nadine, we’re keeping the lid on it as long as we—”
“Shut up. ‘Off the record’ is enough. What sort of message?”
“What you could call fan mail, indicated he or she killed Bastwick because Bastwick wasn’t nice to me.”
“When was the last time you and Bastwick went a round? How was she killed? What exactly did this message say? When—”
“Nadine, throttle it back. I’m tagging you to work the angle of crazy person who’s got an obsession through the Icove stuff. The book, the vid. You get correspondence.”
“Sure, on both, and a lot of it.”
“We’re going to want to cross-reference yours with mine, see if we can pinpoint someone who’s contacted, or tried to contact, us both, who rings a bell for Mira. If you clear somebody who works for you to give us copies, we’ll work that. Just don’t tell them why.”
“Done. I want to see the message. Off the damn record, Dallas. I want to see it because it might ring for me. If there’s a connection, what it says, how it says it might set off a bell.”
It might, Eve considered. And when it was off the record Nadine was a vault. “All right. I’ll send it to you. Don’t share it with Bruno.”
“I’ll be sharing other things with Bruno. I’ll get you the correspondence, you get me the message. And Dallas, watch your back.”
“I intend to.”
She started to dive right back in, but heard footsteps. Male, she concluded, brisk. Resigned, she swiveled to face the door. “Yeah, what?” she said in answer to the knock.
Kyung, media liaison, opened the door. “Lieutenant, I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Had to happen.”
“It did.” He stepped in, a tall, attractive man in a perfectly cut slate-gray suit. After one dubious glance at her visitor’s chair, he eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “Commander Whitney filled me in.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll also be speaking with Dr. Mira, in the event there’s anything we should be handling from the psychological or profiling end for public consumption. And I’ve just spoken with Detective Peabody.”
“Okay again.” He wasn’t an asshole, she reminded herself. “I expected to have some tags from reporters, but I’m clear there so far.”
“I’ve had all inquiries from media rerouted to my office.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You can do that?”
“I can.”
“Why don’t you always do that?”
“Because there are only twenty-four hours in a day. We could go Code Blue,” he continued, speaking of complete media blackout, “but with a victim as prominent in the media as Bastwick, that would only pique interest. Our line, at this time, is you and Peabody are fully immersed in the investigation, pursuing all leads, and can’t take time away for statements or interviews—but will do so,” he added before she got too happy about it, “when there is something salient to report. Meanwhile we will filter all inquiries.”
“How long do you expect that to last?”
“We’ll be lucky if it lasts until tomorrow. Someone will leak the message. A cop, a tech, civilian support.” He shrugged his shoulders elegantly. “But it buys you some time to do what you do without the media focus shifting onto you. It will shift onto you.”