“Very. Add lip dye and mascara.”
Her back didn’t go up this time, but her body sagged. “Come on.”
“Consider it insight. Just add that. For the visual.”
“Crap. Bullshit crap.” She mumbled it, but strode off to the bathroom to push through the limited supplies Trina forced on her.
She came out. “Now?”
“Now? Lethal. You’ll worry her, darling Eve. I have no doubt. See that you, at some point, slip a hand into your pocket in a way that shows the camera a hint of your weapon.”
“That’s good. That’s a good one. I’m going to get started.”
He rose, walked to her. Skimmed a finger down the de
nt in her chin. “Take care of my lethal cop.”
“Count on it.” She kissed him, walked out.
“I do,” he murmured, slipping a hand into his own pocket to rub his fingers over the button he carried there. “I do count on it.”
12
In her home office, Eve read the list of names from her search list. Potential third victims, and some, she thought, hit close to the fictional character’s careless, reckless, selfish description.
More than a few of them had a sheet—assaults, illegals, destruction of property, shoplifting, DUI, disorderly conduct, public nudity. Some charges dismissed, some community service, some cage time, and a lot of court-ordered rehab.
As far as she could discern not one of them contributed in any way to society. And not one of them deserved to end up on her board as a victim.
She sent them to Peabody with instructions to set up interviews—and to twist arms where necessary to get said individuals into Central.
As she’d likely be talking to people most of the day, she didn’t want to start now. She sent Nadine a text telling her to come in to Central, with a camera.
She sent a message to Blaine DeLano requesting that she and her mother come in to Central at their convenience, advising them to contact Peabody with the time they expected to arrive.
After one more message, this to Mira asking for another consult, she sat back a moment to review her notes, then her board.
Shake things up, she thought again. Change the angles and give the crazy bitch something to think about.
She looked forward to giving Strongbow a dose of the real.
She headed downstairs, saw her coat, a scarf—not the one she’d unwound the night before but a long black cloud—along with black gloves probably lined with some ridiculously expensive fur, and her oddly beloved snowflake cap.
She lifted the memo cube topping the pile, engaged.
After a brief, sort of jazzy instrumental, voices—male and female—sang in harmony.
Baby, it’s coooold ouuutside!
She snickered, wondered how he managed to think of the silly. After gearing up, she slipped the memo cube into the pocket of her coat.
She walked into the cold outside.
Something fell from the sky that wasn’t quite snow, wasn’t quite ice, but took elements from both to create the altogether nasty. The thin skin of it over the streets boosted traffic from annoying to insane.
She cursed it. Cursing it didn’t make anyone move faster or with more skill or sense, but she felt better after venting.
By the time she pulled into the garage at Central, she wished the entire driving population of New York City into the fiery flames of hell.