In Death 30 - Fantasy in Death

found nothing.”
    “Keep it documented, Dallas, and be sure Roarke has clear documentation of when and how this game of his has been developed.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    He finished his coffee, set it aside. “I’m not here to tell you how to do your job,” he said and rose. “But only to proceed cautiously, and clearly, where the personal overlaps.”
    “Understood, Commander. I can ask Roarke to turn over the documentation, so that it’s in our files.”
    “He’s already done so, through Feeney.” Now Whitney inclined his head. “He is consulting primarily with EDD, correct, Lieutenant?”
    “Yes, sir. Yes, that would be proper procedure.”
    “I’ll let you get back to work.”
    Alone, she stewed for a moment. It might have been proper procedure for Roarke to give Feeney the documentation, but he might have told her he’d done it. Of course, he would have told her if she’d asked. Or he probably assumed she’d known he would, or . . . screw it.
    She couldn’t stand here trying to decipher the workings of Roarke’s brain when on this point she couldn’t quite decipher her own.
    She gave it up and walked out to keep her appointment with Mira.

9
     
     
     
    T here was a certain ritual involved in Eve’s consults with Mira. Mira would offer—and Eve would feel obliged to accept—a fancy cup of flowery tea. They both knew Eve preferred coffee, just as they both knew the tea represented Mira’s calming influence, a break from the pressure. At least for that initial few moments.
    As Eve sat in one of Mira’s blue scoop chairs she noted, as usual, the office was efficient and female, like the woman who ruled it. Apparently it didn’t bother Mira in the least to discuss the criminal mind, and the horrors inflicted on victims while photos of her family looked on.
    Maybe she chose calming colors in her decor and her wardrobe to counteract those horrors, and scattered those photos around to ground herself to her own reality.
    It occurred to her that she herself placed no photographs in her office—not at Central, not at home. Maybe, she considered, they’d be a distraction from the work, or maybe she’d just find it disconcerting to be “watched” while she worked. Or . . .
    Didn’t matter, didn’t apply. Such analyses and suppositions were Mira’s territory. Eve needed the mind of the killer, needed to live inside it awhile—and her own sparse, uncluttered style suited her.
    She considered her work outfit, one she’d chosen by simply grabbing what seemed easiest. Summer jacket, sleeveless tank, light-weight pants, boots. Work and weather related, period.
    But Mira went for a breezy suit, sort of like a peppermint—white with tiny flecks of candy pink. The flecks matched the shiny shoes with the skinny heels that set off Mira’s very nice legs. She wore her glossy brown hair in flattering waves around her soft and pretty face, and added a little bit of glitter and shine in earrings, necklace, a fancy girl’s wrist unit.
    Nothing overdone, Eve thought—at least not that her sense of style could discern. Everything just so, just right. And, yeah, she admitted, calming.
    “You’re quiet,” Mira remarked as she handed Eve the ritual fancy cup of flowery tea.
    “Sorry. I was thinking about wardrobe.”
    Mira’s eyes, blue and as soft and pretty as the rest of her, widened in both humor and surprise. “Really?”
    “As it applies to profession, or activity or personality. I don’t know.” See, she told herself, thinking about personal choices, personal style, was distracting.
    “Peabody and McNab are heading to DC—a little undercover job at a game con,” she continued. “She’s all about needing to go home, shed what she thinks makes her look like a cop for what she thinks will make her look like a game buff. I figure she’s still pretty much going to look like Peabody because whatever she puts on came out of her closet, right, and she has it there because she put it there.”
    “True. But there are different aspects to all of us, and often our choice of outfit for a particular occasion or duty reflects that aspect. You wouldn’t wear what you’re wearing now to accompany Roarke to a formal charity function, for instance, nor what you’d worn there here at work.”
    “I would if I was running late for the charity deal—or if I got tagged while I was at the deal to a scene.” Eve shrugged. “But I get you. It’d be easier if we could wear whatever we want wherever we