“Don’t remind me. Stupid damn friendships. They always cost you.”
“You’re so soft and sentimental, Dallas.”
“Yeah, I love that about me.” Judging the snow, the insanity of New York drivers in same, Eve swung into a parking lot two blocks from the address. “I’m not trying for street parking in this snowing crap.”
“I can use the exercise. I, like, ate my way through the holidays, and am expecting McNab to spring for something resembling chocolate for Valentine’s Day, so I need to lose in advance. What are you getting for Roarke?”
“For what?”
“For Valentine’s Day?”
“I just got his Christmas stuff five minutes ago.” She stepped out of the car, remembered the scarf stuffed in her coat pocket. Pulling it out, Eve swung it around her neck.
“Two months ago. And it’s Valentine’s Day. For sweethearts. You need to get him a gooey card and a sentimental token. I already got McNab’s. It’s a talking picture frame with our names inscribed on it. I put this shot of the two of us his father took at Christmas? He can keep it in his cube in EDD. Roarke would like something like that.”
“Roarke already knows what we look like.” A minicoupe skidded at the light, fishtailed into the crosswalk, and earned the curses and snarls of pedestrians.
She loved New York.
“Oh, speaking of pictures, I’ve got a new crop of Belle. Have you seen her since you got back?”
“No. Is she asking for tats and belly rings already?”
“Come on. She is so seriously adorable. She’s got Leonardo’s eyes and Mavis’s mouth, and—”
“God help us if she inherits their fashion sense along with it.”
“She smiles at me, every time I pick her up.” Above her scarf, under her watch cap, Peabody’s eyes went to brown goo. “People say that’s gas, but she smiles at me. She’s getting so big, and she’s…”
While Peabody rhapsodized about Mavis’s infant daughter, Eve listened to the music of New York. The blasting horns, the arguments, the rumbling ad blimps from overhead. Through them were the voices, a rat-a-tat of conversations, a litany of complaints.
“So, what are you going to take her?”
“What? Taking what? Where?”
“To Belle, Dallas, when you go to see her. The gift?”
“What gift?” Seriously stymied, Eve stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “Why do I have to take a gift?”
“Because.”
“Why? Didn’t I do the shower thing, with gifts, then the hospital thing?”
“Yes, but when you go to visit the baby at home for the first time, it’s traditional to—”
“Who makes this up?” Seriously aggrieved, Eve jabbed a finger into the marshmallow puffiness of Peabody’s winter coat. “I demand to know who makes these rules. It’s madness. Tell me who it is, and I’ll have them committed for psychiatric evaluation.”
“Aw, Dallas, you just need to bring her a little teddy bear or a pretty rattle. It’s fun shopping for baby stuff.”
“My ass. You know what’s fun?” Eve hauled open the door of the office building. “Finding out who poisoned some poor slob of a history teacher. That’s my idea of fun. Any more talk about shopping, gifts, babies, gooey cards, or Valentine’s Day, my boot’s going so far up your ass you’ll think the toe’s your tongue.”
“A week at the beach sure sweetened your mood. Sir,” Peabody muttered when Eve’s look fried off the top layers of her skin.
Eve turned on her heel toward the security station, and badged the guard. “Lissette Foster.”
“Just a minute, please.” He ran the badge number, the ID ploddingly, thoroughly. “Yes, sir, you’re cleared. Lissette Foster…Foster, Foster. Here we go. She’s with Blackburn Publishing. Editorial. Uh…that’s on the ninth floor. Bank of elevators to your right. Have a productive day.”
“Yeah, you bet. Native of Martinique,” Eve began as they stepped into an elevator to be assaulted with quiet, mind-melting music. “Student visa, most like, work visa maybe. She’d get her green card by marrying a U.S. citizen. And keep her status here as his widow.”