“He got your husband written up,” Peabody pointed out.
“It’s not the first time Milo’s been reprimanded, and—trust me—it won’t be the last. Listen, I work with doctors every day. A hell of a lot of them are arrogant and tactless. Most of them learn to filter it with patients—not all, but most. Milo either will or won’t. I don’t care. What do you think? The two of us plotted together to kill Dr. Abner over a reprimand? That’s crazy. We’re healers.”
“Medicals kill, too, Ms. Roe.” Eve rose. “We appreciate the time.”
“That’s it? You’re just going to turn me inside out, then leave?”
“Unless you have more to tell us, that’s all for now.”
She sat where she was, staring after them, as they walked out.
“Felt believable,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah. She also stayed steady as a rock. Yeah, we gave her a good jolt, but her hands? Rock steady. Could be she
’s just a damn good nurse and doesn’t lose it. Or cold-blooded.”
“Felt like the first to me.”
“Felt like it,” Eve agreed. “Next thing? I don’t think she could’ve cooked up the agent in that apartment. Thin walls, too small, not enough ventilation. Which means if she’s in it, they had to use a lab. You’d have to swipe into the lab sections of the hospital. So let’s check, see if either of them spent any time there. Why don’t you go ahead and contact the vic’s son while we head toward the hospital. And find out if they’ve set a time and date for a memorial.”
They spent a solid hour at the hospital, untangling the red tape, then verifying the IDs of those who swiped into the multiple lab areas inside or attached to the hospital.
And came up blank on Ponti and Roe.
“They could’ve had somebody swipe them in,” Peabody suggested, but Eve shook her head.
“Adding another accomplice? No. This is a dead end. Time to suck that up and move on.”
* * *
While they drove to Central, Elise Duran accepted a package from Allied Shipping. She had a busy morning, nearly put it aside for later, since she wasn’t expecting anything.
But curiosity had her taking it into her well-organized home office to open.
Because she rarely watched screen, she had music on to keep her company and hummed along, even ticked her hips to the steady beat while she went through her mental list.
As a creature of schedules and order, she had a list on her tablet as well, and had crossed most of that off. This morning that included the breakfast dishes—she always sent her men off with a good breakfast—giving her kitchen a good scrub and polish, fussing with the dining room table, the spring flowers she’d arranged the evening before, the stack of pretty plates and napkins.
She still needed to put the refreshments together for her book club. She just loved hosting the book club, sitting and chatting with her group of like-minded literary friends. That included her mother and, to Elise’s mind, nobody knew more about books than Catherine Fitzwalter.
After all, her mom had owned and run First Page Books for fifty-three years. Elise had grown up surrounded by books—something she considered an enormous perk. She worked there three days a week, and of course helped run the in-store book club.
But she so looked forward to the monthly meeting in her own home. There was something special in hosting a group, at home, sitting and talking about a book.
Not that they didn’t often disagree about the book under discussion, but that was part of the fun, and the interest.
And it was a lovely excuse to have some wine with the light lunch and snacks she’d serve.
The house was perfect, of course, despite the clutter her husband and their two teenage sons generated. She’d already seen to that. Of course, she’d yet to fix herself up, but there was plenty of time.
She never failed to be on time.
She set the box—some shipment from a place called Golden Goose—on her neat little desk. She cut the packing tape, drew out the, well, unattractive box inside. Who’d send her such a cheap box?
When she opened that, she felt more baffled. A tacky golden egg? Nothing remotely her style. A gag gift maybe?
All right then, she appreciated a good joke, too.