Calculated in Death (In Death 36)

He stared down at his hands. “It can’t be one of us. It can’t. We’re family.”

Eve didn’t bother to tell him families often stole from each other, and weren’t above familial murder.

When Peabody arrived, Eve gestured her into Marta’s office. “Ten missing files, so they’re trying to work another cover. Still not real smart about it. It may look like system error when McNab gets to it, so he’ll need to dig past that.”

“He will. He’s going over security with the guy downstairs.”

“They got into Gibbons’s office safe, took the copies, which kind of negates a system glitch. Helped themselves to the three hundred in cash in there.”

“Waste not, want not.”

“Sounds true. Gibbons never reprograms the combination, and he admits he’s not always alone in there when he opens it to put something in.”

“So anybody who works here could, potentially, have the combination. Plus they had Marta’s security data most likely if she kept it in her bag or briefcase. Even if not, whoever they’re working with inside, if so, could have given them a way in.”

“It’s a clean job. No ransacking, no mess, no violence. That semi-pro feel again. Professional enough to cover your tracks, stupid enough to leave a trail taking the cash and the files. Leave the fucking three hundred, just corrupt the files.”

“Rushed again, like the murder,” Peabody commented. “A good plan, but not thorough.”

“Still got the job done. Nothing for us to do here,” Eve concluded. “I’

ve got CI coming in to process, not that they’ll find anything. The rest is for McNab. I think we should go talk to some hot-shot business guys.”

“You got that hot-shot outfit.”

“Don’t start on my clothes.”

“I can’t compliment your outfit? Strict.”

“You’re wearing pink cowboy boots. What do you know about fashion?”

“You gave me the boots,” Peabody reminded her, “and I get compliments on them all the time. So there.”

They went downstairs, and Eve hunted up McNab.

As fashion statements went, Ian McNab occupied a world of his own. Eve imagined the many pockets of his bright purple baggies came in handy, but for the life of her couldn’t figure out why he’d matched it with a pullover made up of eye-aching, multicolored swirls. Over it he’d tossed a long, sleeveless purple vest, presumably to discreetly cover his weapon. But the neon hearts dancing over the back of the vest over-balanced discretion.

And Roarke said she didn’t pay attention to clothes.

He lifted his head from his work, the silver rings in his ear jiggling. Like Roarke he wore his hair—straight and blond—pulled back in work mode. But McNab’s trailed halfway down his back of pulsing hearts.

“Somebody knew what they were doing,” he told Eve, and pushed back a bit from the main comp. “Jigged it up to look like a hiccup, and that can happen on these older systems.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Nope. He left fingerprints.”

She all but leaped at the word. “You ran prints?”

“Not that kind of print. E-prints. If you’d just done a standard check run of the system, you’d go, yeah, damn hiccup. You push through a couple levels, and you find a shutdown code blended in with the rest. It’s a little hide-and-seek, and pretty damn good. I need to run a few more checks, but I think they did it by remote, and that’s excellent equipment and a mega excel tech.”

“Okay. When you’re done here, see what you can tell me about the vic’s office unit.”

“Gotcha.” His deep green eyes narrowed in his thin, pretty face. “Mega excel tech,” he repeated. “Shut down the cams, the locks, the alarms, one, two, three. It’s an older system, but it’s not crap.”

“It didn’t do its job.” The man who walked in looked like someone’s kindly grandfather in a three-piece suit. “It’s crap. What system would you recommend?”

“Well, ah . . .” McNab looked at Eve.