In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

as consultant?"
    "Not much, but you can sit in on the briefing."
    "I can't. I'm due in midtown shortly. You can give me a private briefing tonight." He lifted her hand, kissed the knuckles she'd bruised punching the vending machine. "Try to get through the rest of the day without fighting with another inanimate object."
    "Ha-ha," she said when he walked out.
    Then, because she could, she moved to the door and watched him go. The man has a great ass, she thought as she nibbled on her candy bar. A truly great ass.
    She pulled herself back, gathered the files and discs she needed for the briefing, and headed off to the reserved conference room to set up.
    She'd barely begun when Peabody came in. "I'll do that, Lieutenant."
    Her eyes were dry, Eve noted with relief, her voice steady, and her spine straight.
    Eve opened her mouth, nearly asked Peabody if she felt better before she realized the danger of that. Like quicksand, that sort of comment or inquiry would suck you right down into the muck of dialogue about a subject you prefer to pretend didn't exist in the first place.
    So she stood back and kept her mouth shut, firmly, while Peabody loaded discs and stacked hard copies of the updates on chairs.
    "I also have the record of the media conference, Lieutenant. Do you want me to load it?"
    "No, that goes home with me, for my personal viewing pleasure. Did you catch it?"
    "Yeah, they danced and they dodged, then Nadine pinned them with a question on operational procedure. Like, duh, you moved on the building without verifying the target was in place? So, Jacoby juggled around with that, trying to pull 'We can't comment on operational procedure' and blah, blah, then she pinned them again with the fact that the target, a known professional assassin, slipped through their fingers and is now at large even after a complex and expensive operation was put into effect, and why did he think that happened?"
    "Good old Nadine."
    "Yeah, she asked it really polite, too, with a sympathetic expression and everything. Before he could recover, other reporters had picked up the hammer. They smashed right through and all the spinning in the known universe couldn't get them back on rhythm. They called the conference ten minutes ahead of schedule."
    "Media, one. Feebs, zero."
    "Subzero. I guess it's not fair to blame the whole Bureau over the idiocy of two agents."
    "Maybe not, but it's working for me right now."
    She glanced over as Feeney burst in. He was showing his teeth in what might have been a grin and waving a disc. "Got some data here." He all but sang it. "Primo data. Let's see the Feebs try to muscle us off our own turf again. We got the arm now. Special Agent Stowe knew one of the victims. Personally."
    "How?"
    "Went to college together, took some of the same classes, belonged to the same clubs. And roomed together for three months before the victim went overseas."
    "They were pals? How'd I miss that in the profiles?"
    "Because Stowe didn't mention the connection in her profiles. She buried it."
    Eve felt the comfortable warmth of a fresh weapon in her hand, then stopped, backtracked, eyed the disc Feeney was busy loading. "Where did you get the data?"
    He knew she'd ask, which was one reason he'd copied the disc onto one out of his own stash. "Anonymous source."
    Her eyes narrowed. Roarke. "You've suddenly got a weasel who can access FBI files and personal data on its agents?"
    "Looks like," he said cheerfully. "It's a mystery to me. The disc just showed up on my desk. Nothing to stop us from using data accessed from an anonymous source. For all I know, it came from a mole in the FBI."
    She could have argued, she could have pressed. But the fact was, even if he knew the data had come from Roarke, Feeney would never admit it. "Let's have a look. You're late," she said when McNab strolled in.
    "Sorry, Lieutenant, unavoidably detained." He sauntered over, took a chair, and made it clear to everyone in the room that he wasn't so much as looking at Peabody.
    She made it equally clear she wasn't so much as looking at him.
    The result was the temperature in the room plummeted, the air went frosty, and Eve and Feeney exchanged pained glances.
    "You have the hard copy of my updated report. We have a fresh alias to hang on Sylvester Yost." She gestured toward the board where Yost's various images and names were posted, alongside his known victims, the location of each murder, and the physical evidence found on scene.
    "I did a run," she