And heard Peabody’s pink winter boots clomping toward the office.
“Hey, Dallas, Nadine’s here.”
“I don’t have anything for Nadine.” The on-air reporter and bestselling writer was a friend—and often useful on an investigation—but this one didn’t call for Nadine Furst and her crack skills.
“It’s more like she’s got something for you.”
Eve’s eyes narrowed because Peabody’s totally sparkled. “Am I going to smell double fudge brown
ie on your breath?”
“No, and I’d be sad about that, except for what she did bring. She’s got Blaine DeLano with her!”
“Okay.”
Peabody’s sparkling eyes rolled in disbelief. “Blaine DeLano, Dallas. She’s a really famous novelist. The Hightower Chronicles, the Dark novels. She writes about cops. She writes really solid cop stories. I’ve been a fan for, like, a decade.”
“So get her autograph if that blows up your skirt, and send them both on their way. I’m just a little busy with, you know, murder.”
“That’s the thing. Jeez, I got so flustered.” As if it cured the flusters, Peabody patted a hand on her chest. “Ms. DeLano says she might have some information on the investigation.”
“You didn’t think to mention that first?”
“I got really flustered. I started seriously thinking about being a cop after I read Devil’s Due. But she says—and Nadine backs her up—she thinks she has relevant information.”
Eve considered her office and the logistics of fitting four people inside the deliberately limited space—as she’d probably have to knock Peabody unconscious and drag her out to bar her from the interview.
“Have them go to the lounge. I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Um, I think it might be better if I tried to grab an interview or conference room. Santiago’s a big fan, too, and Trueheart. Lots of cops are. So you may want to limit the access to her.”
Even as she spoke, Peabody pulled out her PPC, did a quick check. “Interview B’s open.”
“Bag it, and I’ll be there in a minute.”
She pulled up an incoming on her computer, noted that McNab worked fast. And had interesting data.
Not only a drop phone, she read, but he’d narrowed the location of the transmission to the crime scene. Inside the theater, in the section where Rylan had been seated.
And while he couldn’t confirm it as a timed auto-send, he could and had confirmed it as a recording.
Since he’d attached it, Eve ran it.
Street noises, traffic, horns.
Oh God, oh God, Prince broke the leash, he ran out, into the street. Oh God, he got hit by a car. He’s bleeding. He’s hurt, he’s really hurt.
Eve heard the vet assistant try to interrupt, to calm, to ask questions, but the voice just rolled over her, spiked with panic.
I’m bringing him. I’m running. Please, Prince. Hold on.
Eve listened to it a second time. The killer had done a good job projecting fear and panic in a high register that might have been female or might have been a male feigning hysteria. The video portion only showed a blur of lights, pedestrians, all in the jumpy, jumbled stream of someone running.
“Damn good job,” she murmured. “More than enough to have the assistant on duty call the vet on the slate. You go out some night, push record, run and babble for a minute or so, and done. Last night, you wait for your moment, send it. Wait again until Kawaski leaves her seat. Do the deed, walk out.”
She rose, and went to see what some cop writer thought she knew.
Inside Interview B, Nadine Furst sat at the scarred table as camera ready as she would have been at the Chanel Seventy-Five anchor desk. Her streaky blond hair waved perfectly around her foxy face. A red top with a hint of lace played off her slim and severely cut gray suit.