In Death 13 - Seduction in Death

watched Bryna's arm shoot out, watched her hand fist in the man's jacket. She pulled him inside, and the door shut behind them.
    "She was making the moves." Peabody frowned at the empty hallway now on-screen.
    "Yeah, she was making the moves."
    "I don't mean she deserved to die. I just mean he wasn't pushing. Even when she got aggressive in the elevator, he didn't push. A lot of guys -- hell, most, guys -- would've had a hand under her skirt at that point."
    "Most guys don't sprinkle rose petals over the sheets." She fast-forwarded, ordered full-stop when Bryna's apartment door opened.
    "Note time unidentified male exits victim's apartment. Oh-one thirty-six. Same time the nine-eleven's logged. Louise said she checked for a pulse. Give her a few seconds for shock, a few seconds to run to the body, then check the pulse, then get her pocket-link out and make the call. And that's all the time it took him to walk away from the balcony, move through the apartment and out the door. Computer, continue run."
    "He's shaking," Peabody murmured.
    "Yeah, and he's sweating." But he didn't run, Eve noted. His eyes darted right, left, right as he hurried down the hall to the elevator. But he didn't run.
    She watched him ride down, his back pressed to the wall, the leather bag clutched against his chest. But he was thinking, she mused. Thinking carefully enough to take the elevator to the basement instead of the lobby, to exit the building by the delivery port instead of the front doors.
    "There was no sign of struggle in the apartment. And between time of death, and the time she hit, no time for him to put it back to rights if there had been a fight. But she was dead before she went over. Before he threw her over," Eve added. "She'd been using illegals, but there were no illegals in her apartment. Let's put a bug in the lab's ear on the contents of the wine bottle and glasses. Then go home, catch some sleep."
    "You're going to call Feeney? You need EDD to walk through her computer and find the e-mails she and the suspect exchanged, trace the account."
    "That's right." Eve rose, and though she knew it was a mistake, ordered one more cup of coffee from her AutoChef. "Put the personal garbage in the recycler, and do the job."
    "I'd appreciate it if you'd give McNab that same order. Sir."
    Eve turned back. "He hassling you?"
    "Yes. Not exactly." She huffed out a breath. "No."
    "Which is it?"
    "He just makes sure I know about all the hot women he's sleeping with, and how he's practically doing handsprings since I cut him loose. And he doesn't even have the decency to do it to my face. He just makes sure I hear about it."
    "It sounds like he's moved on. You did cut him loose, Peabody. And you're hanging with Charles."
    "It's not like that with Charles," Peabody insisted, speaking of the sexy licensed companion who'd become her friend. And had never been her lover. "I told you."
    "But you didn't tell McNab. Your business," Eve said quickly when Peabody started to speak. "And I don't want any part of it. McNab wants to screw every female in the five boroughs, and it doesn't interfere with the job, it's none of my business. And none of yours. Leave the priority requests for the morgue and the lab, then go home. Report in at eight hundred hours."
    Alone, Eve sat back at her desk. "Computer, status on identification search."
    Search eighty-eight-point-two percent complete. No matches.
    "Expand search statewide."
    Affirmative. Working...
    Eve sat back with her coffee, and hoped for a name. Hoped for quick justice for Bryna Bankhead.
    Despite the caffeine, Eve managed a more restful sleep on her office floor than she had in the big, empty bed at home. When she woke, she widened the thus far negative identity search. Taking yet another cup of coffee with her into the locker room, she washed up, finger-combed her hair, and rolled up the sleeves of Roarke's shirt.
    It was just after eight when she walked into Captain Feeney's office in EDD. He was standing at his own AutoChef with his back to her. Like Eve, he was in his shirtsleeves, with his weapon harness in place. His wiry, ginger-colored hair had probably seen a comb that morning, but looked no tidier than hers.
    She stepped in, sniffed the air. "What's that smell?"
    He whirled around, his long, basset hound face covered with surprise. And, she thought, guilt.
    "Nothing. What's up?"
    She sniffed again. "Doughnuts. You got doughnuts in here."
    "Shut up, shut up." He stalked by her to shut the