In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

McNab was shooting her every few hours. A line of cops he'd cleared, another line of those who remained suspect.
    Because Central was closer, she slipped back to her office there and ran a series of probabilities using the new data and the new list of names.
    No matter how she juggled it, she found nothing conclusive. And would find nothing, she thought, until she dug deeper. They would have to pick the lives of these cops apart, like crows on fleshy bones. Every time they cleared one, it would put more weight on the rest.
    She knew what it was to undergo an internal investigation, to have the hounds of IAB sniffing at her heels. Being clean didn't make it less nasty. Being clean didn't wash the vile aftertaste out of your throat.
    She couldn't go deeper without sending up flags. Unless she made use of Roarke's unregistered and illegal equipment. She couldn't make use of it without his help. She didn't have the skill to peel those layers away on her own.
    And she couldn't ask him for help when she'd made such a big damn deal about wanting him uninvolved.
    She put her head in her hands, unsurprised, in fact almost pleased that it was throbbing. A good, solid headache would give her something else to be unhappy about.
    She decided to head home. And on the way passed Mavis's billboard. Before she could think about it, she'd engaged her 'link and tried Mavis at home, without any real hope of catching her there.
    "Hello. Hey! Hey, Dallas!"
    "Guess what I'm looking at?"
    "A naked, one-armed pygmy."
    "Damn. Okay, you're too good at this. Talk to you later."
    "Wait, wait." Giggling, Mavis shifted in front of her own 'link as if that would somehow give her the angle of Eve's view. "What is it really?"
    "You. About a million times bigger than life over Times fucking Square."
    "Oh! Is that iced, or what? Is that beyond Arctic? I keep finding excuses to go down and look at it. I want to give your husband a big, wet, sloppy kiss. Leonardo says it's all right with him, under the circumstances, but I thought I should clear it with you."
    "I don't tell Roarke who he can kiss."
    Mavis's eyebrows, currently a neon magenta, rose straight up into her blueberry-colored hair. "Oh oh. Are you having a fight?"
    "No. Yes. No. I don't know what the hell we're having. He's barely speaking to me. Are you -- never mind."
    "Am I what?" She put a hand over her screen, made Eve roll her eyes while she had a whispered conversation with someone else in the room. "Sorry. Leonardo's trying out a new stage costume. Hey, why don't you come by?"
    "No. You're busy."
    "Uh-uh. Come on, Dallas, you never come by the old place. If you're in Times Square, you can be here in a heartbeat. I was just thinking I was going to make a big batch of screamers. So I'll see you in a few."
    "No -- I -- " She hissed a breath at the blank screen, nearly called back and made excuses. Then she shrugged, felt her back go up when she remembered that coolly distant tone Roarke had used on her that morning. "What the hell," she muttered. "Just for a few minutes."

CHAPTER TEN
    Mavis Freestone and her lover Leonardo cohabited in Eve's old apartment.
    What a difference a year made.
    Eve had lived in the single-bedroom unit contentedly enough with a few basic pieces of furniture, no decor to speak of, and an AutoChef that was empty more often than stocked. She'd preferred to think of her lifestyle as simple rather than bland.
    Then again, compared to Mavis, a surf on Saturn's outer rings in a comet buster was bland.
    The minute Mavis opened the door, Eve was struck with color. Blasts of it. Every hue and tone on the palette was turned up to scream level, in patterns and textures that boggled the eye.
    And that was just Mavis.
    The living area of the apartment was draped with miles of fabrics. Some, she supposed, were art of some kind; others, Leonardo's designs in progress. The rather lumpy sofa Eve had left behind when she'd moved in with Roarke was covered now with a bright and nervy pink material that shimmered like polished glass. If that wasn't enough, it was heaped with pillows and throws of clashing colors that seemed to drip onto the floor where more cloths were cleverly tossed in lieu of rugs.
    Beads and spangles and ribbons, and God knew what, rained down the walls, tinkled gaily from the ceiling, which had been painted a high-sheen silver studded with crimson stars.
    Even the tables were fabric, arty lumps of shape that could be called in for seating in a pinch. Eve didn't