Celebrity in Death

off a shelf. “And where did they come from?”
    “The boot elves, I assume.”
    “The boot elves are going to be pissed when they’re dinged and scuffed inside a week.”
    “Oh, I think they’re more tolerant than that.”
    “Those elves keep this up I’m going to need a bigger closet.”
    But she dressed as advised, then sat to pull on the boots while Roarke programmed breakfast for two.
    They slid on like—as Peabody might say—butter. “Okay.” She stood, took some strides. “They’re great. Sturdy—I could definitely kick some teeth in with these.”
    “The elves had that as top priority.”
    “Huh.” She did a quick squat and rise then paddled her heels. “But they’re not stiff or heavy, so they could handle a serious foot-chase.”
    “Second priority. I’ll pass your satisfaction on to the elves.” He set two plates of waffles on the table, gave Galahad a cool, warning stare, then looked Eve up and down. “You look confident, streamlined, and absolutely capable of kicking in those teeth.”
    “I like the last part the best.”
    “Only one of the myriad reasons I love you.”
    She sat, and when he joined her, she laid a hand over his. “I feel confident and streamlined. I woke up that way because you were with me last night, because you loved me. And because you were sitting here this morning, doing what you always do instead of worrying about me.”
    “Does that mean you’re going to stop worrying about me worrying?”
    “It’s moving that way. We probably just need to have a good fightover something, finish it off. A good fight can work like a good orgasm, and clear things out.”
    “Well now, I’m longing for a good fight. We’ll have to schedule one in.”
    “Better, I think, when they’re more … organic.”
    “Organic orgasm through temper.” He laughed as he passed her the syrup he knew she’d pour on in a flood. “I’m filled with anticipation.”
    “Remember that when I piss you off next time.”
    She drowned her waffles in syrup.
    W ithin thirty, primed by waffles, Eve checked her ’link. “Everybody’s a go for the briefing. I’m going in early, make sure everything’s set up the way I want it.”
    “Good luck. I should have some time this afternoon, either to deal with that fight we need to have or give Feeney some help.”
    “Maybe we can work in both.” She gave him a quick kiss before heading for the door.
    “Look after my cop,” he called after her. “Just you try licking off that plate, boy-o,” she heard him say to the cat, “and see what happens.”
    It made her grin all the way downstairs.
    She didn’t have as much luck with traffic as she had the day before, but used the time in snags and snarls to work out her approach.
    She wanted a warrant to search Steinburger’s residence, his office, his vehicle—and one to dump all his electronics on Feeney and EDD.
    Odds of getting them were slim, she knew. She could—she damn well would—convince everyone in the briefing that Steinburger had been killing people who annoyed him, got in his way, or just posed a serious inconvenience, for forty years.
    And yet the pesky issue of probable cause would remain.
    Still, she’d push for it, and if—most likely when—she got shut down, she’d push for one to monitor his ’links and comps.
    And she wanted that in place before she talked to his ex-wives—the surviving ones—his boat pal, former college roommates, Buster Pearlman’s widow. Before she had another round with the Hollywood set.
    A lot of people were going to feel the heel of her new boots on their necks before she was done.
    She pulled into her slot in Central’s garage. She rode up in an elevator that stopped to let cops on, let cops off. And wished she’d opted for the glides when an undercover detective she recognized stepped in hauling a midget.
    The midget boasted a shaved head covered with tats and showed gaps in his teeth in a feral snarl. That bald head might have only reached McGreedy’s waist, but its owner looked mean as a rattler.
    Both of them smelled, strongly and distinctly, of shit.
    “Jesus, McGreedy.” One of the cops stepped as far to the side as the car would allow. “You sleep in the sewer?”
    “Chased this fucker into one. Caught you, too, didn’t I, you fucking little fucker. Fucker bit my ankle. I got midget teeth marks in my ankle.”
    Even as he said it, his prisoner issued a sharp kick to the wounded ankle, another to the shin, and let out a