Celebrity in Death (In Death 34)

“I’m going to grab a shower,” she told him. “You’d better catch up on the world domination.”

“I’ll get right on that, after I feed the cat.”

He did so while she went for the shower. Then, drinking his own coffee, stood by the window.

Careful with each other, she’d said. Yes, they were just now. And it looked as if they’d need to be for a little longer yet.

She felt like herself—maybe even just a little better due to the magic coat—when she drove downtown. She left the windows down so the brisk air could slap her cheeks, pleased that the ad blimps had yet to start their hyping lumber in the sky, and the snarl and piss of New York traffic could rage on without the blast from above.

Too early for blimps, too early for most tourists. It felt like New York nearly belonged to New Yorkers. Glide-carts did their morning business, heavy on the soy coffee and egg pockets. Maxibuses burped and farted their commuters to the early shift or breakfast meetings while those on foot clipped along or swarmed the crosswalks like purposeful ants.

She had a plan, and it started with cornering A. A. Asner. Charges of breaking-and-entering, criminal trespass, electronic trespass, accessory

to blackmail—to start—and the threat of losing his license and livelihood should make him talk like a toddler on a sugar high.

She’d bargain some of that against him turning over the original recording—and all copies, as well as spilling any and all data he had on K.T. Harris, her movements, her intentions, her meets.

If he hadn’t done some research on Harris, some shadowing, she’d eat her new magic coat.

And to cover bases, she’d requested a warrant for both his home and offices, citing his business with the victim.

She expected to get it.

She settled for a second-level spot a block and a half from Asner’s apartment building. Decent neighborhood, she noted. Better than what he’d chosen for his office. Packs of kids shuffled down the sidewalk, heading for school, she imagined, some of them herded by parents or nannies. Their chatter piped through the air as most headed along the sidewalks in what she assumed was the latest kid fashion of mid-calf boots with soles thick as a slab of wood.

Those who didn’t shuffle, clumped.

A woman in overalls hefted up the safety grill on a small market. She shot Eve a smile.

Fresher weather, Eve thought, fresher people.

She enjoyed the walk, promised herself she’d get in the solid workout the preshift visit to Asner had postponed until the evening.

She spotted Peabody coming from the opposite direction in kind of a quick march. The cowboy boots Roarke decided Peabody had to have from Dallas flashed sizzling pink with every stride.

The stride hitched, and Peabody’s mouth formed a stunned O. Instinctively, Eve laid a hand on her weapon, checked behind her, but Peabody was already dancing—the only word that fit—down the sidewalk.

She said, “Ohhhh,” and reached out.

“Hey. Hands off.”

“Please. Please, please, soooo pretty. Lemme just have one little touch.”

“Peabody, isn’t it embarrassing enough you’re wearing pink cowboy boots, again, without standing here drooling on my coat?”

“I love them. Love, love my pink cowboy boots. I think they’re going to be my signature footwear.” She snuck in a stroke along the sleeve of Eve’s coat. She said, again, “Ohhhh, ultra-squared. It’s like butter.”

“If it was like butter it’d be melting all over me.”

“It sort of does. It’s all gushy and soft and so completely uptown. When you were walking it just swished. It’s just as mag as your long one.”

“Now that we’ve discussed our wardrobe choices for the day, maybe we can go roust Asner. Since we’re here anyway.”

Peabody’s hand came up again, and Eve pointed a warning finger. “You already touched.” When she turned to the building’s entrance, Peabody let out her third ohhhh of the morning.

“The belt detail in the back. It highlights your butt.”

“What?” Stunned, Eve tried to crane her neck and look. “Christ.”