Memory in Death (In Death 22)

“Your hair looks absolutely mag,” Peabody told her as they sat.

“You think? First time I’ve taken it for a spin.” In the way of women, Nadine combed her hand through the angled ends. “I’m trying it out.”

A waiter, decked out in leafy green, poofed beside their table like magic. “Welcome to Scentsational, ladies. I’m Dean, and I’m your server today. Can I get you a cocktail?”

“No,” Eve said even as Peabody’s eyes brightened. She kept hers bland as Peabody’s dimmed. “Got Pepsi?”

“Of course, madam. And for you?”

“Can I get what she’s got?” Peabody gestured to Nadine’s drink. “Virgin.”

“Absolutely.”

“Fantastic party the other night, by the way,” Nadine began when the waiter went off to fill the order. “I’m still recovering. Didn’t have a lot of time to talk to you then, and I didn’t think it was the right time and place for what I need to talk about. So—”

“Hold that, will you? I’ve got something going, and I need some spin.”

Nadine’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve got a hot one already? Why haven’t I heard?”

“Female vic, skull cracked, hotel room on the West Side.”

“Mmmm.” Nadine shut her eyes a minute. “Yeah, I got some wind on that. Tourist, bungled break-in. What’s the big?”

“I found the body. I knew her. It wasn’t a burglary gone wrong.”

“Let me get this down.”

“No, keep it in

your head. No record, not now.”

“You never make it easy. All right.” Nadine sat back, gestured with her glass. “Shoot.”

Eve gave her the basics, quick and pointed. “The department feels it would be in the best interest of the investigation if my connection, however slight, with the victim was made known straight off. I’d appreciate some…” She couldn’t think of the right word. “…I guess delicacy. I don’t want big drums banging about the whole foster business.”

“I won’t, others might. Are you going to be prepared to deal with that?”

“Not much choice. The point is—and the point that should be banged is—a woman was murdered, police are investigating. Evidence indicates that the victim knew her assailant.”

“We do a one-on-one, you can put it in your own words. Get your face out there while you do. The public hasn’t forgotten the Icove business, Dallas, believe me. Seeing you, hearing you, reminds them. Oh yeah, there’s that cop who busted those crazy doctors. And when I wrap the story with that tag, that’s what they’ll focus on more than your negligible connection to a recent murder victim.”

“Maybe. Maybe.” Eve paused as their drinks were served and the waiter began his litany of the day’s specials and chef’s recommendations.

Because the descriptions were long and rapturous—Jots of “infused with” or “scented with” and “delicately swathed in”—she tuned him out and turned over Nadine’s suggestion.

“Give me the pasta thing,” Eve said when it was her turn to order. “How soon can you do the one-on-one?”

“I’ll get a camera, do it right after lunch if we cut the meal a little short. I need to skip dessert anyway.”

“All right. Good. Thanks.”

“You’re always good for ratings. Speaking of which, mine are currently through the stratosphere. One of the things I wanted to discuss with you. I had the front line with the Icove story—thanks—and I’m raking in the offers. Book deals, vid deals, and the big one, for me… Drum roll, please,” she said while her face lit up. “…I’m getting my own show.”

“Your own show!” Peabody all but bounced on her seat. “Wow! Mega-wow! Congratulations, Nadine. This is beyond uptown.”

“Thanks. A full hour weekly, and I can call my own shots. I’m going to have a staff. Jesus, I can’t get over it. My own staff, my own show.” Laughing, she patted her heart. “I’m sticking with the crime beat, it’s what I know and what I’m known for. We’re calling it Now, as I’m going to deal with what’s happening up to the minute we air, every week. Dallas, I want you to be my first interview.”

“Nadine, congrats and blah-blah. Seriously. But you know I hate that crap.”