In Death 26 - Strangers in Death

interest in your partner, you should be aware that Detective Peabody’s appearance on Now begins in approximately four minutes.”
    “Fuck.” Eve breathed out the word, scowled at the intercom. “I know what time it is.” Or she did now. Annoyed, she started up the stairs, and his voice followed her.
    “You’ll find cold bags in the top, far right drawer of your office kitchen.”
    She hunched her shoulders—oh, she heard the smug satisfaction—and kept going. In her office she dumped the file bag on her desk, ordered the proper channel on screen. And because her cheek throbbed like a bitch in heat, retrieved and activated the stupid cold bag. With the blessed chill pressed against her face, she booted up her computer. Might as well deal with the next irritation on her list, she thought, and write up her report on the Times Square bust.
    She’d barely begun when Now ’s theme music boomed on. With half an ear, she listened to Nadine’s intro, spared a glance at the screen where the reporter’s cat’s eyes stared soberly back at her. Polished and powerful was the image, Eve supposed, with the streaky blonde hair, subtle jewelry, the good legs highlighted in a sleek copper suit. Of course, most of the viewing audience hadn’t seen Nadine dance half naked at a sex club after a pitcher of zombies.
    She introduced Peabody as the dedicated, decorated police officer, and cited some of the more media-worthy cases she’d helped close. When the camera panned over to her partner, Eve pursed her lips.
    Trina hadn’t gone freaky on her hair and face, Eve noted. She looked young, but not soft, so that was good. The suit, with its military cut, probably worked. And if you didn’t know her, you wouldn’t notice the utter terror in Peabody’s eyes.
    “Don’t screw up,” Eve muttered.
    Nadine led her in, softballing a few, and Eve could see Peabody begin to relax. Not too relaxed, Eve thought. She’s not your friend when you’re on air. Nobody’s your friend when you’re on air.
    “Damn it, now I’m nervous.” And because of it, Eve rose and paced in front of the screen as she watched.
    Handling it, handling it. Pursuing all leads, blah, blah, blah. Unable to comment on specifics, yada, yada. Peabody confirmed there had been no sign of forced entry—that was okay—and better, dropped in there were indications the security system had been compromised.
    They circled around each other on the sexual nature of the murder. It was Nadine’s job to dig for details and Peabody’s duty to avoid giving them. Standing in front of the screen, Eve felt a quick little twist of pride. They both did nice work.
    Enough got in, just enough to confirm the murder had sexual elements. But the tone, the message, transmitted clearly that Thomas A. Anders was the victim. A life had been taken.
    Wrapping it up now, Eve realized. Thank Christ.
    “Detective,” Nadine began, “Thomas Anders was a wealthy man, a strong, visible presence in social and business circles. His prominence must bring a certain pressure onto the investigation. How does that influence your work?”
    “I…I guess I’d say murder equalizes. When a life’s taken, when one individual takes the life of another, there’s no class system, no prominence. Wealth, social standing, business, those might all go to motive. But they don’t change what was done, or what we as investigators do about it. We work the case the same way for Thomas Anders as we do for John Doe.”
    “Still, some departmental pressure would be expected when the victim has prominence.”
    “Actually, it’s the media that plays that kind of thing up. I don’t get it from my superiors. I wasn’t raised to judge a person’s worth by what he owns. And I was trained as a cop, as a detective, that our job is to stand for the dead—whoever they were in life.”
    Eve nodded, dipped her hands into her pockets as Nadine cut away to end the segment and preview the next.
    “Okay, Peabody, you can live.”
    Ordering the screen off, Eve sat at her desk and got back to work.
     
    T here she was. Roarke stood in the office doorway, took a few enjoyable minutes to just watch her. She had such a sense of purpose, such a sense of focus on that purpose. It had appealed to him from the first instant he’d seen her, across a sea of people at a memorial for the dead. He found it compelling, the way those whiskey-colored eyes could go flat and cold as they were now. Cop’s eyes. His cop’s