“Her mother was here a couple days ’round Christmas. Got some other young people who came in and out now and then. And a couple of loud parties. Both of them came home stumbling drunk New Year’s Eve, giggling like a couple of kids, shushing each other.”
He shook his head slowly. “Fucked-up world. You’re wondering about criminal activity? You got yourself a couple of straight arrows with these two, you want my take. Up every morning, off to work, back every evening. Socializing now and again, sure, but these were homebodies. Shoulda stayed home more, I guess, and out of that fucked-up world.”
They spoke with the handful of neighbors who were home, and the rhythm remained stable. The Fosters were a happy and newly married couple, young urban professionals who enjoyed each other.
“We work three angles,” Eve decided as they headed back downtown. “The vic, the school, the poison. They’re going to intersect somewhere.”
“Maybe through the science department. We can find out if they were studying poisons, or ricin in particular.”
“Dawson’s a science teacher,” Eve considered. “Let’s do a deeper run on him. You tag him meanwhile, ask about what gets mixed up in their lab.”
“Got it. And if we’re leaning toward somebody in the school, or affiliated with it, we should check the students’ records. See if Foster had any go-round with one of them, or the parents of same.”
Eve nodded. “Good. Let’s look at the staff members we’ve verified were in the building before classes started. If I were going to slip something in somebody’s go-cup, I’d want to get it in before the place got crowded. We’ll write this up, then start digging.”
“Hate to dig on an empty stomach. Not to be a whiner, but we haven’t had a dinner break, and it’s nearly eight. Maybe we could—”
“Eight? Dinner?”
“Jeez, Dallas, just a hoagie.”
“Shit, shit. Shit! Dinner. Eight. French place. Fuck, fuck. Why is it nearly eight?”
“Well, because the Earth rotates on its axis while it orbits around the sun. You’re supposed to be somewhere.”
“Roarke. Corporate wife duty.” Eve wanted to pull at her hair. “I missed the last two, and I can’t do the no-show again. Le Printemps. That’s it.”
“Le Printemps? Ooh-la-la! That’s megachic. Totally. And it’s Upper East Side. Hate to point this out, but we’re low on the Lower West Side.”
“I know where the hell we are.” She batted her fist on the wheel as she spun into the garage at Cop Central. “I have to go. I have to do this. I’m already late. Goddamn it.”
“The case is going to hold for the night,” Peabody pointed out. “We’ve got nothing but paperwork now anyway. I can write the report, and we’ll do the runs and the digging in the morning.”
“Copy the report, my home and office units. Anything else in your notes that strikes you. Get out, get out! I gotta get to this stupid French place.”
“Aren’t you going to go home and change first?”
“Into what? I don’t have time.” Then she grabbed Peabody by a fistful of puffy coat. “Do this one thing for me. Tag Roarke, tell him I’m on my way. Caught a case, running late, but I’m heading there now.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t do it. He’ll see I’m in regular clothes, and he told me I should take a change into work, but I nixed it. Like I want to go prancing out of Central in some fancy dress.” Aggravation all but streamed out of Eve’s pores. “Do you know the grief that causes me?”
“Honestly? I don’t know how you suffer through it. I’d crack like an egg in your place.”
“Oh, bite me and tag Roarke.”
She all but shoved Peabody from the vehicle, and was whipping the wheel and speeding out.
She couldn’t remember what she’d tossed on that morning, and since she was driving like a maniac, couldn’t afford the time to check herself out. The traffic, the stupid snow, the need to weave and dodge made switching to autopilot an impossibility.
She probably smelled of death.
Well, it was his own fault, she decided. He’d married her, hadn’t he? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t made full disclosure on what a crappy wife she’d make for a man like him.
She’d had to go and fall for a man who owned the lion’s share of the known universe, and had to—on occasion—trot out his wife for that odd and awkward mix of social business.
He wouldn’t complain that she was late. In fact, he wouldn’t even be annoyed with her. If a cop had to get married—and God knew they were better solo—she couldn’t do better than hooking up with a man who understood that the job messed with personal plans. Constantly.