He scratched fingers through his wiry hair. “Jesus, Dallas, even I know about the fricking Oscars. The vid award thing.”
“Right. I knew that.” Somewhere, in some corner of her brain.
“You’re not going?”
“No.”
“The Icove vid’s up for a shitload. Nadine’s up for one. Why aren’t you going?”
Inside her head, she sulked at the question. “I don’t want to. You have to get all fancied up and talk to other fancied-up people, and sit there with them, right? And you have to do it in New L.A. with the media all up in your grill asking idiot questions like: Who are you wearing?”
“Yeah. I’d want to stun myself first, but it’s a BFD anyway. You know Peabody and McNab got invites to it.”
“No.” Eve stopped, more than surprised. “Are you sure? Peabody’d be nagging me brainless about it.”
“I’m sure. I got it from Callendar because McNab’s keeping it down low, too. And I figure they’re not nagging us brainless because we just gave them five days off, and you gave them the place in Mexico to recharge. So they’re not saying anything about it because they don’t want to be greedy assholes.”
“Okay.”
He sent her that basset-hound look as he ordered up the fizzies at Vending. “It’s a BFD, kid. Likely a once-in-a-lifetime BFD. I’d be willing to spring McNab for it if you spring Peabody.”
“We just caught a case with twelve vics. Shit, shit, fuck! When is it?”
“Sunday.”
“The what? Like the next one coming?”
“Yeah, like the next one coming. But Sunday. They could take the weekend, be back Monday if this is still going hot. Tuesday, maybe, if we nail it—because it goes late, I guess. What I’m saying about that admin kid runs true. We gotta have a life. Don’t say anything yet. Give it a day or two.”
“Fine,” she grumbled as he armed himself with fizzies. “Now I’ve got to ask Roarke, if I decide to spring her, to provide transpo.”
“You oughta talk to Nadine about that. She’s going for sure. She’s probably got something lined up they could hitch to.”
“Maybe. Shit. It’s bad enough she did all this with Icove, now she’s got me reading the manuscript deal for the Red Horse case she’s done.”
“Yeah? How is it?”
Eve’s shoulders sagged. “It’s fucking good. I hate that. I’ve gotta go.”
Oscars, my ass, she thought as she strode away. How was she supposed to think about the freaking Oscars when she had twelve in the morgue? Most of them in pieces.
She put it aside to worry about later, hopped on a glide. And put her brain in the job.
She strode into Homicide, blinked once at the bug-eyed multicolored fish on Jenkinson’s virulent blue tie, and kept on going until she hit the comforting dull colors of her office.
Because the swallow of rat soup still sat uneasy, she locked her door before stepping over to her AutoChef. She programmed an alfalfa power smoothie, her latest hiding place for her candy stash.
“Son of a bitch!” She pulled out an actual alfalfa power smoothie. “Son of candy-stealing bitch of a bastard!”
Not only had the nefarious Candy Thief snatched her chocolate, he/she had taken the time and trouble to replace it with the actual item on the freaking menu.
She had to respect that.
When she caught the son of a bitching bastard—and she would, oh, she would—she’d hang the thief out her window by the heels. Naked.
But she’d do so with respect.
For now, she unlocked her door, programmed black coffee, then set up her book and board.