Not camera ready for a change, Eve mused, and with her streaky blond hair sleek and wet.
“Get you out of the shower?”
“Nearly. If you’re heading into Central, I’ll be there in thirty.”
“I’m not. I’m in the field.”
“The morgue then.” Face naked, eyes hard, Nadine nodded. “A visit to Larinda.”
“Figured you heard.”
“Of course I heard.” As she spoke, she moved. Eve saw a blur of Nadine’s swanky new bedroom in her swanky new apartment. “Just like I heard you were on scene when it happened—Roarke’s bar. I need a one-on-one, and I need it this morning.”
“I need an interview—official,” Eve countered, “and I need it this morning.”
Movement stopped. “With me? Why?”
Eve noted Nadine now stood in her closet—nearly as big as her own, and even more ruthlessly organized.
“I’ll get to that during the interview. I have to come to the station anyway. I’ll talk to you there. About two hours, so be there.”
“I want that one-on-one, Dallas. Larinda was—loosely—an associate, a coworker. The station’s already all over this, and I’m the top crime reporter—on screen and in the field.”
“We’ll talk,” Eve repeated. “Two hours.”
And clicked off.
She’d be annoyed, Eve thought. And she’d push for the one-on-one. Which Eve already intended to give her—and which Nadine already knew she’d get.
But the steps of investigation came first.
She continued multitasking as she strode down the white, echoing tunnel of the morgue.
Cesca the waitress came on screen, heavy-eyed, purple hair tousled. “Um,” she said.
“I’m sorry to tag you so early,” Eve began. “I need a follow-up with you. I’d like you to come into Central.”
“Into…” The heavy eyes popped wide. “Am I in trouble? Am I a, what, like a suspect?”
“Neither. You may be able to help in our investigation. I can arrange for transportation if you need it.”
“No. No, I can … Now?”
“How about in an hour? If you come through the main entrance, go to the first security desk. I’m going to have you cleared up to me.”
“Okay. Okay. But … Can I bring a friend? I don’t want to come by myself. Is that okay? Wow.” She shoved and pushed at her wedge of hair. “I’m so nervous.”
“You can bring whoever you want, and there’s no reason to be nervous. I can come to your place, but this saves me some time. I’d appreciate it.”
“Okay. Okay.” Cesca pushed at her purple hair again, and didn’t look convinced. “You didn’t catch the killer yet?”
“I’m working on it. An hour,” Eve said, clicking off as she reached the doors to Morris’s theater.
Today’s music, hard-edged rock—beat low. Morris, a clear cape over a navy suit with thin, metallic red stripes, stood over Larinda Mars.
His hair slicked back from his interesting face to form a looped braid twined in that same metallic red. The red—mirrored in his tie—told Eve grief hadn’t dogged him when he’d chosen today’s wardrobe.
DeWinter, just being DeWinter, she supposed, earned some points for that.