Calculated in Death

actually work, and Biden’s smarter and meaner.”
    “All that. And.”
    She sidestepped a couple of women loaded down with shopping bags, bubbling over with excitement over some sale, and not watching where the hell they were going.
    “He likes going after what’s not his, then doesn’t appreciate it once he’s got it,” Eve added. “He’s tight enough with his financial guy to push him on someone else, and does it in such a way that indicates said money guy isn’t above skirting around the edges.”
    “That, too.”
    “Which doesn’t mean he’d kill or arrange for a killing. But it does confirm he’s stupid enough to do it, and do it half-assed. I want you to go talk to a few more exes, feel them out.”
    “Good times.”
    “Yeah, I figured you’d see it that way.”
    People hustled or breezed or wandered by. Some talked on ’links like the guy pleading into his for Michelle to give him five minutes, just five minutes, baby. Some took vids, like the group of Asian tourists in I Heart New York ski caps posing in front of a storefront. Others ate on the run, like the man chomping down on a loaded soy dog.
    The buzz of voices and varied languages, the movement and pace typified New York to Eve.
    But right now she wished they’d all just get the hell out of the way so she didn’t have to weave through them.
    “I’m going to do another run at the WIN Group. Then I’m going to my home office, see what I can put together,” she told Peabody. “We’re going to push at Arnold and Parzarri tomorrow, as soon as they’re back. It’s one of them, one of the WIN Group, and one of the four dicks we talked to today. Or two of the four. We’ll whittle it down. If we can pin any one of them, we’ve got all of them.”
    She heard the faint whine, felt the pressure thump into her back, just between her shoulder blades. Instinct kicked in, had her driving at Peabody and knocking her partner to the ground.
    “What the—”
    “Stunner!” Eve rolled, coming up with her weapon as she surged to her feet. Through the crowds—New Yorkers who barely flicked a lash, tourists who stopped to gape, she spotted the big man—six four, two-fifty, Caucasian, ski cap, sunshades, black scarf and coat—execute a quick pivot and run.
    “Move!” she shouted to Peabody and sprinted off in pursuit. Forced to dodge and weave—and leap over the pedestrians the man mowed down like bowling pins—she lost some ground. She saw him charge up the stair access of the High Line. For a big man he moved fast and well—athletically, she thought as she bore down and bolted up after him.
    People strolled, sat on benches, took personal vids—while others stumbled back off the pebbled trail as her quarry cut through them. She ignored the shouts, the curses, long jumped over a planting to cut his lead. Her lungs burned, but she told herself she was gaining ground.
    With barely a hitch in his stride, he snatched a toddler off the ground, coldcocked its father with an elbow to the jaw, and threw the shrieking kid through the air like an arena ball with limbs.
    With no choice, Eve cut left, trampling native grasses, and set to receive.
    The force of the kid’s body knocked her up, back. Knocked her flat and knocked her hard. The kid’s skull rammed like a hurled rock into her chest. She felt her bones sing, and her burning lungs expelled what air she had left. Desperately she tried to suck in oxygen, and her throat wheezed and burned from the effort.
    The toddler’s galloping heart thwacked against her—even that hurt, but it assured her he’d lived through the flight and landing. She had a moment to think at least the impact had knocked the air out of the kid, too, as the shrieking stopped. But with a mighty gasp, the child let out a scream so sharp she wondered the air around them didn’t split in two.
    Her ears rang in a chorus of crazed church bells.
    “It’s okay, you’re okay.” Panting, Peabody lifted the kid—its sex undetermined in its bright red hat and coat. “You’re just fine now, little man. Just fine.”
    With the pressure somewhat relieved with the lack of the kid’s weight, Eve wheezed in air. “How do you know it’s a male?”
    Peabody patted the kid as she crouched down to Eve. “Are you okay? How bad are you hurt?”
    “I don’t know. Not bad.” Unless she counted the throbbing in her chest where the kid hit, in her ass where
she’d
hit, in her head where it had slammed, and some singing in her