In Death 07 - Holiday in Death

out."
    "Suit yourself. Me, I'm out of here." He started for the door, stuffing his bag of nuts into his pocket. "Oh, we're looking forward to the Christmas party."
    She was already focused on her computer and barely glanced over. "What party?"
    "Your party."
    "Oh." She searched her mind, found it blank as far as parties went. "Yeah, great."
    "Don't know a thing about it, do you?"
    "I must." And because it was Feeney, she smiled. "It's just in another compartment. Look, if you see Peabody out in the bullpen, tell her she's off duty."
    "Will do."
    Party, she thought with a sigh. Every time she turned around, Roarke was giving a party or dragging her off to one. The next thing she knew Mavis would pounce on her about getting her hair done, having face and body work, trying a new outfit designed by her lover Leonardo.
    If she had to go to a damn party, why couldn't she just go as she was?
    Because she was Roarke's wife, she reminded herself. And as such she was expected to attend social functions looking slightly better than a cop with murder on the brain.
    But that was... whenever it was. And this was now.
    "Computer, list matches through Personally Yours for Hawley, Marianna."
    Working...
    Match one of five... Dorian Marcell, single, white, male, age thirty-two.
    While the computer listed his statistics, Eve studied the image on screen. A pleasant face -- a shy look around the eyes. Dorian liked art, theater, and old videos, claimed to be a romantic at heart looking for a mate for his soul. His hobbies were photography and snowboarding.
    Nothing special about Dorian, she thought, but they would see what he'd been up to on the night Marianna had been murdered.
    Match two of five... Charles Monroe, single, white, male --
    "Whoa, whoa, hold it. Stop." With a half laugh Eve peered at the face on screen. "Well, Charles, fancy meeting you here."
    It was a fine face smiling back at her, and she remembered it. She'd met Charles Monroe nearly a year before while investigating another murder -- the case that had brought her and Roarke together. Charles was a licensed companion, slick and charming. And what, she wondered, was a well-heeled LC doing in dating service?
    "Trolling, Charlie? Looks like you and I are going to have to have another talk. Computer go to third match."
    Match three of five, Jeremy Vandoren, divorced --
    "Lieutenant."
    "Computer pause. Yeah?" She glanced over as Peabody hovered at the door.
    "Captain Feeney said you're finished with me for the day."
    "Right. I'm just running some names before I go."
    "He, uh, mentioned that you were going to use McNab for some of the e-work."
    "That's right." Eve angled her head, then kicked back in her chair as Peabody struggled to keep her face controlled. "You got a problem with that?"
    "No -- that is... Dallas, you don't really need him. He's such a pain in the ass."
    Eve smiled cheerfully. "He's not a pain in mine. I guess you'll just have to work on making your ass a little tougher, Peabody. But buck up, he'll do most of what I give him over in EDD. He won't be around here much."
    "He'll find a way," Peabody muttered. "He's such a show-off."
    "He does good work. And anyway -- " She broke off as her communicator beeped. "Shit, I should have gotten out of here on time." She pulled it out. "Dallas."
    "Lieutenant." Commander Whitney's wide, stern face filled the small screen.
    "Sir."
    "We have a homicide that appears to be connected to the Hawley case. There are uniforms on the scene now. I want you as primary. Report to 23B West One Hundred and Twelve, apartment 5D. Contact me at my home office after you've confirmed the status."
    "Yes, sir. I'm on my way." She spared Peabody a glance as she rose and grabbed her jacket. "You're back on duty."
    The uniform standing guard at Sarabeth's door had eyes that told Eve she'd seen the likes of what was inside before, and expected to see it again.
    "Officer Carmichael," Eve began, scanning the nameplate. "What have we got?"
    "White female, early forties, dead at scene. Apartment's in the name of Sarabeth Greenbalm. No sign of forced entry or struggle. There's no video security in this building other than on the main door. My partner and I were on our cruise when Dispatch sent the call at sixteen thirty-five. A 1222 anonymous report at this address. We responded, arriving at sixteen forty-two. The entrance door and the door of the reported unit were unsecured. We entered and found the deceased. We then secured the scene and alerted