Born in Death (In Death 23)

With a frosty bellini in her hand, Nadine Furst—ace reporter and soon-to-be host of her own crime-beat show—wandered over. “You give a good party, Dallas. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mavis look happier. She’s literally radiating.”

“Wait, she could start bawling any minute.”

“Hormones.” Nadine shrugged. She was wearing her streaky blonde hair sleek these days around her sharp face. “Wanted to talk to you.”

“Hair looks great, fantastic shoes, and I’m sure whatever man you’re currently banging is handsome and wise. Does that cover it?”

“No, but you got three out of three. We’re fine-tuning the format for my show, and the producers and I thought it would just top it off if we had a monthly segment with you. An intense hour every four weeks that not only focuses on whatever case you’re working, but gives a roundup of what you’ve handled through the month.”

Nadine lifted her glass in a kind of toast before she sipped. “Adds a nice punch to the format, and it’s good exposure, good PR for the NYPSD.”

“A monthly deal? Let me think about it a minute. No.”

Nadine merely sipped her drink, cocked a brow. “Which is exactly what I told my team you’d say. So I have this alternative, which I think would suit us both. A monthly segment with Homicide. Someone in your division comes on every four weeks. All you have to do is assign the detective, give me the heads-up so I can prep. It’s good screen, Dallas. And it gives the viewing public a face.”

“Maybe.” The reality was there had to be some give and take with the media, and the plus was Eve knew she could trust Nadine to give a balanced view. “Something like that I’d have to run by the brass.”

“You’re still first up.” She tapped Eve’s shoulder. “The one you’re working now would have a kick. Two lovers—young, attractive, and seemingly ordinary—bound, tortured, and killed. How’s it going?”

“That’s what I like about you, Nadine. You know how to make party conversation.”

“Would you rather talk about childbirth and breast-feeding?”

“I’d rather be stabbed in the eye with a burning stick. It’s going. You got any dish on a Walter Cavendish? Rich lawyer.”

“No, but I can poke around.”

“How about the Bullock Foundation?”

“Huge. Donates mucho moolah, funds programs, gives grants. London-based with a worldwide reach and some off-planet interests. Headed now by Bullock’s widow and second wife, who enjoys the limelight, and her son, who’s rarely fa

r from her side. Just what does the respected and generous Bullock Foundation have to do with two dead accountants?”

“That’s the question.”

Because she saw Peabody rushing over and knew she was about to be tossed back into Babyland, Eve grabbed a bellini for herself.

“We have to do the games.” Peabody had a gleam in her eye that might have come from the bellinis, or the overdose of estrogen.

“Go ahead,” Eve told her.

“Nuh-uh! You have to run them. If I do it, I can’t play. I wanna play.”

“Don’t look at me,” Nadine said when Eve turned to her.

“Oh, hell. Fine, great. I’m on it.”

She’d run ops, she ran a squad of detectives. She could handle a hundred women over a bunch of stupid games.

They were insane, Eve discovered within the first fifteen minutes. The room was packed with women who were psychotic and certifiable. Screaming, shouting, laughing like mental patients over the race to decipher each rubric she held up.

She wasn’t entirely sure she wouldn’t be forced to subdue a brunette who looked big enough to be carrying triplets.

“Cradle Robber!” The woman screeched out.

“Okay, good. You got it. Settle down.” Eve pressed a finger to her eyes, breathed, and prayed she’d make it through the next two rounds without becoming a gibbering idiot.

At last she got a break as the victor insisted on being hauled to her feet to waddle over to inspect the prizes and select her spoils.