“You mean did I ask her for the deets after?” Sasha gulped down water, paused, gulped again. “Of course I did. She wouldn’t spill. And I wheedled pretty good.”
Sven took the nearly empty water bottle. “It’s time for your cardio.”
“I hate cardio. Let’s skip it and go straight to the massage.”
“Sasha,” said Sven, severely, and tsked again.
“All right, you sexy sadist.” She pulled herself up off the floor of her home gym to climb on the cross trainer. “Give me Paris, Sven. If I’m going to hike and sprint and step, it might as well be Paris. I was going to go over and see her this afternoon,” Sasha continued as the Arc de Triomphe flashed on her view screen. “But Bridge has it under control, and she’s better with this kind of thing than I am. When Ava’s ready for a distraction—for a trip or good drunk or retail therapy—I’m her girl. Brigit’s the soft shoulder.”
“How was Ava, on this last trip?”
“Good. Fine. Maybe a little tense and moody when we started out, but she chilled. Listen, I can’t talk and do this torment at the same time, so is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s it. Thanks. We’ll see ourselves out.”
As Eve turned away, she heard Sasha curse. “Sven, you bastard! There’s no hills like these on the frigging Champs-Élysées.”
7
THE MORNING INTERVIEWS GAVE EVE A LOT TO chew on. If there’d been time, she’d have done just that, in her office, with her boots on her desk and her eyes on her murder board. But sessions with Mira were gold, and not something she could afford to fluff off.
With Peabody writing up the statements and reports, Eve strode into Mira’s outer office.
“Dr. Mira is running a bit behind today,” the palace guard in the guise of admin informed her.
“How behind is a bit?”
“Only a few minutes.” The woman smiled. “You’re a minute late yourself, so it won’t be long.”
“Fine.” Turning away, Eve screwed up her face and mouthed, You’re a minute late yourself. Then pulling out her ’link called her oldest friend, Mavis Freestone. Seconds later, Mavis’s happy face, surrounded by an explosion of lavender hair, popped on screen.
“Dallas! Guess where we’re going? Me and Belly Button?”
“To hell in a handbasket?”
“To the baby doctor. Yes, we are!” Mavis said in an excited coo. “We’re all clean and shiny and we’re going to the baby doctor so he can look at our little dumpling butt, our magalicious baby girl ears, and our yummy tum-tummy. Isn’t that right, Bellamia? Say hi to Auntie Dallas, sugarcheeks. Say hi.”
Mavis’s face was replaced by the round-cheeked (maybe it did have something to do with sugar), bright-eyed, curly-haired infant Mavis had popped out a couple months before. There were candy-striped ribbons tied in bows in the curls, drool dripping down the pudgy chin, and a huge, gummy grin. “Say hi to Bellaloca, Auntie Dallas.”
“How’s it going, Belle. Mavis.”
“Wave bye-bye, my itsy-bitsy baby-boo. Bye-bye to Auntie Dallas. Give her a cooey-dooey—”
“Mavis!”
“What?”
“Mavis, I’m saying this for your own good. You have to stop the insanity. You sound like a moron.”
“I know.” Mavis’s eyes, currently purple, rolled. “I can hear myself, but I can’t stop. It’s like a drug. So totally S. Hang on.” She set down the ’link, and the screen filled with the rainbow hues of the nursery. Eve heard Mavis cooing and gooing, and assumed she was putting the kid down somewhere.
“Back. She’s so beautiful. And she’s so good. Just this morning—”
“Mavis.”
“Sorry. Back.” Mavis blew out a breath that fluttered the lavender bangs spiking over her eyes. “I’m kicking out to the studio later, working on a new disc. I’ll be around grown-up people, lots of crazy artistic types. That’ll help.”
“Yeah, crazy artistic types. That’s the ticket. I just have a question.”