New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“And completely screw up their rhythm,” she said. “Undermine their progress and fuck Peabody’s confidence to hell. I know what you’re thinking because I’m thinking it, too. But waiting here, it’s . . .”

“Hard. Waiting is hard, and frustrating, even when you know it’s what you have to do. Maybe especially then.”

He’d know, she thought. A cop’s spouse knew every layer of waiting. “Does it piss you off, too?”

“More than a little at times.”

“There’s nothing else for me to do tonight. Nothing else to dig at. All I can do is keep going over and over what we have, and fucking wait for somebody else to give me more.”

“Then take a break, let it settle awhile. I’ll give you more on my area when I get it.”

She retreated, got more coffee.

She circled the board, told herself they had every area covered that could be.

She checked the time.

While Eve circled and studied, Darlie Morgansten tried on the most icy jacket ever. It was pink, her favorite color, and had sparkles all over the collar. Completely vid star.

It also cost more than three months’ allowance, and since she’d already spent most of this month’s on a too totally mag purse, and last month’s plus on stuff she couldn’t quite remember but wanted so abso-complete, she was awesome short.

Still, she modeled and admired herself in the mirror, ignoring the watchful eye of the salesclerk who’d given her and Simka, her best friend since ever, the eyeball treatment since they’d walked in.

“Darl, you have to get it. It’s, like, mag to infinity on you.”

“Maybe Dad will give me an advance. Mom won’t.” She rolled her lively green eyes. “All I’ll get from her is—”

“The Lecture,” Simka finished, rolling her eyes in solidarity. “You could tag him up, show him how super-frosted you look in it.”

“Too easy to say no over the ’link. Sheesh, that lady’s still hawking us. It’s not like we’re shoplifters. Here, take my picture.” She handed Simka her ’link. “Then I can go home, soften him up, show him when he’s in a really good mood.”

“But somebody might buy it before you give him the works.”

“I’ve got a little left. I can put it on hold.”

She angled herself, smiled brilliantly for the shot, a pretty young girl with long brown hair, temporarily streaked with vivid purple, which had earned her The Lecture just that morning.

In fact, the hair deal had meant she’d had to wheedle her butt off for this trip to the mall, and she’d only copped it because her mother was shopping, too.

And she had to meet The Warden—her most current term for her mother—at nine forty-five on the dot right under the clock tower. And tomorrow was a free day and everything with no school due to teacher-planning sessions.

She’d wanted to shop with Sim, go to the vids, have pizza after, but no. Home by ten, in bed by ten-thirty.

You’d think she was three instead of thirteen.

Mothers were such a pain.

“I’m going to put it on hold. We’ve still got a half-hour before we have to meet The Warden.”

“Check. I’m going to try on this top and the pants, too. I’ll come out so you can tell me the abso-total truth about how they look.”

“I will, but I already know they’ll look complete on you. Cha.”

Darlie hurried to the counter, gave the watchful clerk a haughty stare as she paid the holding charge. She started back toward the dressing area when a fabo skirt caught her eye.

“Excuse me.”

Startled, Darlie jumped back. “I wasn’t doing anything.”