She had to admit—hated to, but had to—it was pretty damn impressive.
She unlocked her door, stalked out to the bullpen. Jenkinson and his tie were back—and dear God, this one sported rainbows obviously generated in a nuclear reactor. So were Reineke and his socks, but she thanked the patron saint of vision she couldn’t currently see them.
Santiago and his hat had rolled over to Carmichael’s desk, where they held an intense conversation. Eve figured it involved an active case or another stupid bet.
Since Baxter and Trueheart were missing, she assumed they’d caught one.
Peabody looked busy with a report.
“This isn’t over,” Eve announced. Activity stopped, heads turned. “Believe me, it’s not over.”
After stalking back to her office, she gave the ceiling tile another scowl. She’d think of something else. Oh yeah, she would.
Her ’link signaled a text.
Brinkman is in Nevada—Vegas—completing some business. He’s arriving in a company shuttle at Startack Transpo Station, private dock, at half-three. Where he will be met by his regular driver and car service. Is expected to check in to the office, but go straight home. He has a black-tie event this evening, and has bookings for a massage, with his stylist, in his home beginning at half-four.
You’re welcome. Eat.
“Okay, okay, that’s good.” Now she scowled at her AC, then turned back as she heard the brisk clicks of heels heading for her office.
It didn’t surprise her to see Mira, or to see her looking pretty as spring in a suit of soft blue.
“I didn’t mean for you to have to squeeze this into your day,” Eve began.
“Not such a squeeze. I’m heading out for a lunch meeting—with Natalia Zula—so I have a few minutes first. And I wanted to ask you if you’re bucking for my job.”
“What?”
With a smile, Mira came the rest of the way in, took a scan of the board. “Your profile of Darla Pettigrew is very astute. Your correlation to her relationship with her grandmother, what her own ambitions, emotional development, expectation may have been, may be through that relationship, strikes as accurate.”
Mira eased a hip on the corner of Eve’s desk. “Your summation there, and theory, lean heavily on your belief she’s killed. How confident are you that’s the case?”
“I’ve run probability scans that—”
“No, not what a probability scan calculates. How confident are you?”
“Ninety-five percent. I’d say a hundred, but there’s always a chance I’m wrong, and I have to factor that in.”
As she spoke, Eve turned to her board, hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studied Darla’s photo.
“I have to factor in that she buzzed for me right off. Straight off, and I can’t shake it. So because I’ve looked at her from the start, that could influence the rest.”
“I’d love a chance to speak with her, evaluate her myself.”
“I want her in the box.” Eve turned back. “I need a reason to get her there. I’m working on that.”
“Then I’ll leave you to it.” Mira straightened. “So far, her violence has focused on men, and specifically men who have wronged women in her support group. But that violence would, unquestionably, spread to anyone who attempts to stop her from enacting her form of justice. So while, for the moment, she sees you as a kind of colleague, that will change.”
“Yeah. I figure to give that one a little push later today.”
“Then be careful.”
“One question,” Eve said as Mira started out. “Is a bag of soy chips some sort of lunch?”
“No,” Mira said, and kept going.
“Damn it.”