“Anyway.” Leaving it at that, she continued upstairs.
“Go on,” Summerset told the cat. “I expect she’d like the company whether she knows it or not.”
Galahad padded, as briskly as his bulk allowed, after Eve.
In the bedroom, he bumped against her legs as she stripped off her jacket. So she crouched down to give him a rub that had his bicolored eyes slitting in ecstasy.
“I’m going to wrap her up,” Eve told him. “Wrap her up like a smelly fish. Wrap her up, put her in a box, and tie down the lid. Put her in a cage, her and every one of her murdering, cheating, lying, corrupt cops. Jesus, I’m pissed.”
She took a breath, another, as the raw anger she’d managed to cage the entire day threatened to break loose.
“Treacherous whore-bitch cunt using everything and everyone to feed her own pathetic needs. Abusing what she’d promised to honor. Twisting everything she’d been given, everything entrusted to her so she could stroke her bank account and her goddamn sick ego.”
She tried another couple breaths. “Really pissed,” she admitted, “and that won’t help. I should be more like you, more like my cat. Cool and sneaky.”
She gave him a last pat, then removed her weapon, the rest of her clothes. In the shower she let her mind empty, just empty out. And in that calmer space began to test the pieces, calculate the angles, arrange the steps.
Cool and sneaky, she thought again. Good tools when you were planning to take down all or most of a police squad.
Once she’d dressed, she strapped her weapon back on. Hardly necessary inside her own house, but wearing it would be more official. Another symbol, she supposed. And maybe, as silly as it sounded, it offset the casual tone of peach pie à la mode.
She hauled up her file bag and headed to her office.
The door to Roarke’s office stood open. She heard his voice, moved to the doorway. Whoever he spoke with, and whatever they spoke about, utilized the short speak of high-tech that eluded her. It was, she thought, like listening to a conversation in Venusian.
Whatever it was had to do with, she assumed, the weird schematics flashing on-screen—and if she was following the Venusian, the changes Roarke wanted to them.
“Put them in and run a new analysis. I want to see the results tomorrow afternoon.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” Eve said when he’d finished. “What was that thing?”
“What will be the new generation laundry unit.”
She frowned at him. “Like for washing clothes?”
“It’ll do a bit more than that. One self-contained, multi-compartment unit.” In his beautifully cut suit, he leaned back against his desk, studied the schematics with obvious satisfaction.
“It should do everything but tuck your clothes in your drawers and hang them in your closet. And if you want that as well, you could purchase the droid attachment.”
“Okay. I guess it seems a little mundane for you.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you ran out of clean underwear.” He crossed to her, gave her an easy hello kiss. “And people need the mundane every day.”
“I used to take all my stuff to Mr. Ping’s place around the corner from my apartment,” she remembered. “He was good at getting blood-stains out.”
“An essential service in your line of work. I don’t see any today.”
“Day’s not over. I’ve got to set up for the briefing. Things are rolling.”
“I’ve got a few things to finish up, then you can fill me in.”
“Okay.” She paused at the doorway. “You know, I guess there was somebody a few hundred years ago, beating a dirty shirt against a rock in a fast stream, who thought there’s just got to be a better fucking way. If he hadn’t found it, we’d all be wading in rivers on laundry day. Mundane’s got a point.”
She moved into her office. She arranged two boards, one for the murder, one for the investigation on Renee Oberman’s operation, adding data on every cop in Renee’s squad she’d acquired through low-level runs.
She grabbed the sweepers report the instant it came through, studied it and the lab analysis on the illegals taken from the crime scene.
Little pieces, she thought. Tiny little pieces—mundane, you could say.