She pulled into Central, started toward the elevator, and spotted Jenkinson. You couldn’t miss the tie, not even from space.
With his coat open, it glowed toad green with—perhaps not coincidentally—bug-eyed frogs of yellow and blue hopping over it.
“You could light a cave with that thing around your neck.”
“Never know when you might end up in one. How was the time off, LT?”
“Quiet. Warm. Sunny. Everything winter is not.”
“Nice.” They stepped onto the elevator. “Cleared a couple while you were dancing on the beach.”
“Junkie knifed by second junkie, woman bludgeoned by ex-boyfriend.”
Jenkinson eyed her as the elevator stopped and more cops shuffled on. “Checking up on us from sun and sand?”
“I was in yesterday. Caught one yesterday morning, about two in the A.M.”
“Well, welcome home.” Then he frowned. “Strazza business?”
“That’s the one.”
“Getting play in the media. Bigwig surgeon, young fancy wife. She messed up bad?”
“Pretty bad.”
“Still…”
“Yeah, always look at the spouse first. But this woman didn’t rape herself, bust up her own face. Got two like crimes in the past year, just without the murder.”
Though the elevator stopped again, added more people, she decided to ride it out.
“He dresses up.”
Jenkinson, who’d been balefully eyeing the levels as they lit up, turned back to Eve. “What, like in a tuxedo?”
“Like monsters. Horned devil on this one.”
Jenkinson shook his head. “People are fucked-up.”
A couple more cops came on. One of them studied Jenkinson. “That’s some tie you got there, Jenks.”
“Yeah, that’s what your sister said when I put it on this morning.”
That got a few snorts and made the crowded ride a little more entertaining.
When they shoved their way off, Jenkinson kept pace with Eve toward the bullpen. “Reineke and I are clear right now if you need more hands with this case.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
The minute they stepped into the bullpen, Jenkinson leaped forward. “Hey! Are those sticky buns?”
Santiago stuffed the last of one—from the box Eve had left in the break room—in his mouth, mumbled incomprehensibly over it.
Eve kept going toward her office, so whoever had already reported for duty could fight over whatever was left.
Eve hit her office AutoChef for coffee, tossed off her coat and winter gear, and studied her board with rested eyes.
She had two police artist concepts of the first two costumes. Not Yancy’s work, but more than decent. And still, she imagined, the victims’ impressions, their fear, might have lent some drama to the looks.
She put in a tag to Yancy, left him a v-mail requesting he work with Daphne Strazza at the hospital in addition to the rental crew. She could use a good sketch of the devil.
Since Peabody hadn’t reported in, Eve contacted the first victims, ran into a house droid that gave her grief. She geared up for a fight, then heard the click of Mira’s heels heading to her office.
“We’ll get back to you.” She disconnected, held up a finger as Mira came in, and tagged Peabody. “Get your ass to work and contact the first two pairs of vics, arrange interview times. There or here. Make it happen.”
She clicked off before Peabody could respond, turned to Mira.
“Sorry.”
Waving it off, Mira slipped out of her soft blue winter coat to reveal a rosy red suit. The clicking heels went with a pair of silver-gray short boots, with the combo showing off excellent legs.
“You want some of that tea stuff?”
“I’d love it, thanks.”
“Use my chair. Seriously.”
“I absolutely will. And welcome back. You look rested. Amazing what just a couple of days away can do.”
“You should’ve seen me yesterday.” Eve programmed the tea, and while its floral scent wafted through her office, passed it to Mira.
Mira sat, crossed those excellent legs, smiled at Eve out of her soft blue eyes. “I looked at Daphne Strazza’s medical chart. You and Roarke may very well have saved her life.” Sitting back, Mira brushed back a strand of mink-colored hair.
Eve cocked her head. “Did you and Mr. Mira head for the sun, too?”
“No, but that’s a compliment. I decided to add some more highlights, get through the winter doldrums. Actually, Trina talked me into it.”
Eve goggled. “You’re going to Trina now?”
“I am. My hairdresser moved to Brooklyn, and Trina—though I know she can be … opinionated—is excellent.”
Opinionated, Eve mused. She’d have used pushy, scary, and in-your-face. And she couldn’t believe she was talking about hair anyway.
“Okay, well. Daphne Strazza.”