“He’s a high-end designer,” Peabody pointed out. “Did he design those pants you’re wearing, because they’re abso-mag. If I had yard-long legs toned like steel, I could wear those pants.”
“I don’t know who the hell made them, and Leonardo wasn’t always high-end. He’d still know people.”
And her oldest friend Mavis’s “honey bear” had the sort of sweet, open nature that drew people.
“Get on it, stay on it. Pull in help if you need it, but let’s track those stupid penguins. I’ll take the DeLanos when they get here.”
“Already booked A. Dallas, we could pass the run on Strongbow—hunt for single female in Brooklyn—to EDD. T
hey’d cut through it faster.”
“Do that. And …” She trailed off when she heard footsteps coming their way. Female.
Hell, all she had today was female.
Mira, looking very female in her soft blue winter coat, some sort of fuzzy white beret angled over her dark sweep of hair, stepped to the doorway.
“I’m interrupting.”
“No, your timing’s great.”
“I’ll get on this. I love the hat,” Peabody said to Mira with a grin, getting one in return.
“It’s a new favorite. You do such pretty work, Delia.”
“It’s not work if you love it.”
Peabody clomped out; Mira swept in.
The thin, short heels on the rose-colored booties made no concession to whatever fell out of the sky. But they matched the pretty suit under the coat to an exact shade.
Mira set down her suitcase-size handbag—shades of blue and rose in a wavy pattern—unwound her white scarf.
“You want some coffee? Or that tea stuff?”
“The tea, thanks. I had coffee this morning.”
Though Eve couldn’t say what having had coffee had to do with having coffee, she programmed the tea.
“I appreciate you getting to me so fast.”
“I read your reports, last night and this morning.” Mira sat in the desk chair after Eve pulled it out for her, crossed her legs. “I wanted to get to you before my day started, as it’s very full. From the data and evidence you’ve gathered, Strongbow is the prime suspect. This person—and I agree with your conclusion, she’s a woman—exhibits signs of obsession and delusion.”
“And then some,” Eve agreed.
“She’s clearly obsessed with DeLano, with the books, with her own desire to publish. She’s moved from fan to fanatic. The accusations—her absolute conviction that DeLano plagiarized her work—is part of the delusion. And that delusion and obsession has its roots in her conviction that DeLano was not just the author of a series of books she enjoyed, but her personal friend, her mentor and advisor.”
“She saw what she wanted/needed to see, and made that her reality.”
“Yes. There is nothing, absolutely nothing in DeLano’s responses—though they are warm and friendly, even helpful—to warrant these conclusions.
“This is a woman who creates situations, imagines actions, reactions, connections, and turns them, as you said, into her reality. She wishes something was so, and it becomes so. She has no one to talk to, no one to ground her to reality. She lives in the books—ones she reads, ones she writes.”
Mira sipped some tea while Eve edged a hip onto the desk.
“She kills in the books, and now in reality.”
“Taking her power. I’d say she’s felt powerless,” Mira continued. “She’s watched those who break the rules, who do what society considers wrong, profit and thrive. Likely she’s experienced being treated unfairly though she, at least in her mind, did her very best, though she followed those rules.”