“I couldn’t count them,” she admitted.
“And that doesn’t begin to address all those who work on processing and forensics and so on.”
“I stood in the lab today, and I thought: All these people in their white coats, they’d know how to do a clean kill, to keep evidence off a crime scene. And I don’t know them—a handful of them, but that’s it. There’s the sweepers, there’s the morgue doctors, techs, support. Or it’s just some crazy person who got juiced up from the book and vid.”
“Bastwick’s not in either.”
“No, she’s not.”
“Then why her? Specifically her?”
“Okay.” She sat back with her wine. “I spent some time scanning some interviews she did around the Barrow trial. She tried to make a case in the court of public opinion that I had a vendetta going, that I had a score to settle—a personal one. She tried to get in I’d physically assaulted Barrow, covered it up, and she wasn’t wrong. But it didn’t play out. If they’d copped to the reason I did indeed punch the fucker, they’d have had to cop to why. As long as they were stringing the line he’d inadvertently developed a system of mind control using subliminals, they had a shot of getting him off with a light tap. If they had to say I’d punched him because he’d used that system on us, and on you, that meant the law would punch him right along with me.”
“I hurt you. I forced you—”
“He did those things,” Eve interrupted. “He used you, me, Mavis. He did it all for fun and profit. And now he’s doing a good long stretch in a cage. He didn’t kill, but he provided a weapon.”
“Bastwick didn’t get him off,” Roarke pointed out. “Could he have found a way to get back at both of you from that cage?”
“I checked on him. He’s restricted. Isn’t allowed electronics. He doesn’t have access to money, so he can’t pay anybody to do it. I could see him trying to find a way to come after me—the sniveling little coward—but I can’t see him going after Bastwick.
“But I’m going to look at him again,” Eve added. “I’m going to look at her firm—eliminate that connection, and the idea of anyone there hiring a pro.”
“You’d want a good eye on the financials.”
“I thought yours would qualify.”
“So it does. Her family?”
“Yeah, elimination again, because why? Maybe you hate your sister, decide to kill her or have her killed. Why muck it up with me? But we eliminate, we play it right down the line.”
“All right then. Give me a list, and I’ll entertain myself.”
She nodded, looked down at her wine. Set it aside. “I told Summerset not to open the gates for any deliveries or whatever unless he could confirm ID—and not to open the door period. You might want to add your weight to that.”
“I will, though you should know yours is enough for him. You’re concerned because the two of you like to swipe at each other, someone might . . . misinterpret your relationship?”
“It would mean the killer has more personal information on me—us—but I’m not taking chances. It wouldn’t hurt for you to beef up your personal security until.”
“Because, at some point, I might be viewed as a rival for your affections.”
She lifted her gaze, held his. “Something like that.”
“I should point out that as it’s most likely you’re the center of this, your personal security is a vital issue.”
“Cop, badge, weapon.”
“Criminal—reformed. But reformation doesn’t negate experience. Why don’t we do as you said? We play this down the line, eliminate. Then we’ll worry about the rest.”
“You’re going to worry about me, more than usual. When you do, remember something else I said before. I don’t think I could live without you.” She got up. “I’ll get you the list, and we’ll get started.”
• • •
With Roarke settled in his own office, Galahad sprawled and snoring on her sleep chair, Eve finished setting up her board.
She finished it by adding her own ID photo.
Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, she thought, studying herself. Potential victim, potential witness, potential motive.