Delusion in Death (In Death 35)

“He’s a pretty good cat.”

Wet laughter blew through the tissue. “Sure he is, but you know I meant Roarke. I love him. And if something terrible happened to McNab, I’d fight you for him. And I’ve been practicing.”

“So warned.”

“You’re okay?”

Eve thought it over. “I’m okay. There’s probably going to be some rough spots here and there, but I’m okay. Sperm and egg—that’s what they were. For eight years, between the two of them, they made me a victim. They made me afraid and gave me pain. Now they’re dead. I’m not a victim. I’m not afraid. And pain? Not much. They can’t hurt me anymore, so what I have, it’s just echoes. It’ll pass.”

She pulled up in front of the little house in Brooklyn. “Do something about your face. You’re all splotchy.”

“Crap.” Peabody began lightly slapping her hands over her face.

“What does that do?”

“Makes it all red, distributes the blood. Maybe. It’ll calm down in a few minutes. Just keep Mrs. Cattery focused on you.”

“Christ. Stay behind me.”

Peabody got out, lifted her reddened face. “It’s really windy, and cold. It’ll just look like I’m windburned.” She took a steadying breath. “Did you tell me this when we were in the car and on our way to interview so I couldn’t hug you?”

“It’s a side benefit.”

“I’m going to hug you later. You won’t know when it’s coming.”

“The same goes for my boot up your ass.”

“That’s a given. It’s a daily surprise.”

“Settle down, and let’s do this.”

“It’s a nice house,” Peabody observed as they walked to the door. “Nice neighborhood.”

“He was the only one on the team who did the campaign who didn’t live within blocks of the office.”

“Wife and kids. Fenced yard. Dog.” She nodded toward the back. “See, doghouse.”

“What’s in a doghouse? Mini-screen, AutoChef?”

“Probably a ratty blanket and a collection of soup bones. How’s my face?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

With that ringing endorsement, Peabody angled herself slightly behind her partner as Eve knocked on the door.

16

Eve pegged the woman who answered as a well-toned sixty-five. Her hair, a stylishly streaky sweep, swung around a tired face currently dominated by suspicious eyes.

“Can I help you?”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, NYPSD. We—”

“Of course, I recognize you. Have you found the person responsible for Joe?”

“We’re pursuing all leads. We’d like to speak to Mrs. Cattery if she’s available.”

“She’s resting. Can you talk to me? I’m her mother. I’m Dana Forest. I don’t want to disturb Elaine if there’s nothing new. She’s barely slept since—”