Excitement built on the climb up the stairs, and the anticipation of killing again—this time knowing the rush of it, an immense satisfaction.
The importance of the work.
All of it offered to Eve, even that, all offered to her in open friendship. The man who had once bruised her face would finally meet justice.
There was no question Eve would be pleased, very pleased now to know scum like Ledo had been removed from society.
Protect and serve.
Ignoring the stench of piss and vomit, the killer dealt quickly with the thin and pathetic lock on the flop door.
If Ledo wasn’t alone, had managed to lure a junkie or street LC to his bed, it would be a twofer.
Either way this time, surely this time, Eve would see, would understand, would send some sort of sign that she valued her true friend’s devotion.
Soundlessly, the killer slipped into the flop, closed and locked the door. Added a temp bar lock, just in case.
Rhythmic, nasal snoring came from the left. The thin beam of a penlight found Ledo, sprawled on a dirty mattress. Alone.
Satisfied, the killer set down the box, took the stunner from the coat pocket, and got down to work.
• • •
It felt normal, having breakfast with Roarke in the sitting area of the bedroom—despite the fact he’d chosen oatmeal. If she’d gotten to the AutoChef first, she’d be eating pancakes, but she’d loitered in the shower and had no one to blame but herself.
As Galahad had less interest in oatmeal than she did, he stretched himself over the back of the sofa, tail twitching, bicolored eyes watchful, obviously hoping bacon would magically appear.
Settled—and really, if you put lots of brown sugar, honey, and fat berries in oatmeal, you could pretend it was something else—she told Roarke about the dream.
“Even your subconscious should know better. You’re not responsible for the actions and choices of someone bent on killing.”
“Yeah, and mostly I get that, know that,” she corrected. “It feels like I was working out something else. Bastwick was just a vehicle. We have to investigate all the angles, follow procedure, and we are. But we’re not going to find some resentful coworker or bitter ex-lover. Worse, the only way we can really shift the focus onto what I think is the meat, will be when there’s another body with another message for me.”
Bastwick had been right, Eve thought, she couldn’t protect the next.
“The killer is my friend,” Eve murmured. “She said that.”
“And it’s bollocks.”
“Not complete bollocks. Clear it all away, and my work is pursuing killers. Nobody kills anybody, no work. That’s cold logic. And maybe it’s the killer’s logic.”
“All right,” he conceded, “that may be cold logic, but it’s also twisted.”
“So’s the killer, so it fits. Justice—you know the statue with the blindfold—got a kick out of it all. I figure that’s because Bastwick and I knew, just like any cop and lawyer know, Justice peeks under the blindfold plenty.”
She scooped up more oatmeal because it was there. “It’s interesting.”
He’d have preferred the dreams take a holiday and let her sleep easy.
“You’ll be speaking with the woman who wrote you, the paralegal.”
“Hilly Decker, yeah. We’ll get that checked off first thing this morning. She lives, and works, near Central, so I’ll hook up with Peabody there, on the way in.”
“It’s not a complete shift, but it’s a few steps down the other path. And Mira will have more . . . candidates for you today.”
“‘Candidates.’” She managed a short laugh. “For Dallas’s new best friend. I’m not really clear on how I ended up with the friends I actually have, but I do know a top requirement is no murdering lunatics need apply.”
She shoveled in more oatmeal—get it over with. “Talk to Summerset, okay? Before you go off to buy your next continent or whatever.”