In Death 32 - Treachery in Death

considered a moment, then, “On my way,” and clicked off.
    “On your turf,” Roarke commented.
    “That’s a factor, but he knows it’s smarter to start this outside rather than with a major meeting in his office. I’m going to go prep for this.”
    “I imagine he’ll have some questions for me, so I’ll see if I can be available. I have a holo-conference in ten minutes. I should have it wrapped by seven or so. You did well,” he added.
    “It’s just the beginning.”

5
    EVE PREPARED A PACKET FOR HER COMMANDER with copies of all data, recordings, statements, and notes. While she worked she practiced, in her head, her pitch for the steps she hoped to take next, her reasons for each, her justifications for bringing in Feeney and Mira and connecting with Webster for the IAB aspect.
    Tone, strategy, logic, confidence. She’d need them all, and in a seamless blend, to keep her hands on the controls of what would be a two-point investigation—one that put Marcus Oberman’s daughter in the crosshairs where they met.
    She glanced up as McNab came in. He wore his own clothes—probably for the best. Seeing him in normal attire might shock their commander senseless.
    “Peabody’s taking a few more minutes,” he told Eve. “I think she just wanted a little time alone.”
    “What’s her status?”
    “She’s pretty solid. I thought maybe she’d have nightmares, but I guess she was too wiped.”
    Wiped was how she’d describe him now. The bright clothes, the shine of the earrings crowding his earlobe didn’t disguise the strain and worry clouding his face.
    “Ah, you look ... I guess the word’s formidable. In a styling way,” he added.
    Score for Roarke, she thought.
    “Anything I can do?” he asked her.
    “There will be, but for now we’re on hold. I checked the monitor. Everything’s five-by-five there. Get some coffee,” she said when he just stood in front of the board she’d set up, jingling whatever he had in his multitude of pockets. Then she remembered who she was talking to. “And some food.”
    “Maybe I’ll put something together for Peabody.” He started toward the kitchen, then stopped in front of her desk. His green eyes burned cold. “I want blood. I know I’ve got to get over, got to get straight, but fuck it, Dallas, that’s what I want. It’s not because—or just because—she was in a situation. The job puts you in situations, that’s what it is. But it’s not supposed to come from other cops.”
    “A badge doesn’t make you a cop. Get over, get straight, McNab.” She’d already told herself the same. “That’s how we’ll make this right.”
    While he fiddled in her kitchen, Eve rose to check the board again, to be certain she’d forgotten nothing. She heard Peabody come in behind her. “McNab’s fixing food. Go get some.”
    “Stomach’s a little jumpy. The idea of going through it with Whitney.”
    Eve turned. Not altogether solid, she noted. “Do you trust your commander, Detective?”
    “Yes, sir. Without reservation.”
    She used the same brisk tone she had with McNab as she gestured toward the kitchen. “Then get some food, shed the nerves, do the job.”
    Turning away, she checked the monitor again—unnecessarily, she knew, and logged the time as Peabody moved by her.
    Moments later she heard McNab’s voice. She couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was sly, teasing. And Peabody laughed. Eve felt the tension in her own shoulders ease.
    To satisfy her own needs she ordered Renee Oberman’s ID photo and data on her comp screen for another long study.
    Age forty-two, blond and blue, five feet four inches, one hundred and twenty pounds. Attractive, as Roarke had said. Flawless ivory skin with a hint of roses, classic oval face with sharply defined eyebrows several shades darker than her hair.
    Dark eyebrows, Eve noted, and a dark forest of lashes—which probably meant Renee had a clever hand with facial enhancements. She’d left the face unframed, pulling her hair back for her official photo, but Eve had studied others with the long, straight-as-rain fall of it sleeked to the shoulders.
    Vanity, Eve thought. Maybe another area to exploit.
    The only child of Marcus and Violet Oberman, who’d been married forty-nine years. Father, police commander (retired) with fifty years on the job. Mother, a waitress, had taken six years as a professional mother after the daughter was born, then found employment as a sales manager in a women’s