“They’re your priority.”
“You got that, Dallas. We won’t be dropping any of the balls we got in the air.”
“Peabody, see that everyone gets the necessary data.”
“Yes, sir.”
“If necessary, you can speak with Feeney and/or McNab for e-work, Mira for profiling or shrink shit. If you need a consult with the lab, Dickhead only, unless you run it by me. The lid’s going to blow on this, but the push on that isn’t going to come from this division. I don’t have to tell you, but I’m going to. If and when you’re approached by the media—or any fucking body—your line is it’s not your case, ask Lieutenant Dallas. Last . . . Slick and Shiny Baxter?”
“Yo.”
“The flying crap stops with me. It’s why I get paid the slightly less pathetic bucks than you. But . . . your help and your willingness to offer it—all of you—is appreciated and valued. Dismissed.”
As they rose, Jenkinson got to his feet, cleared his throat. “Nobody fucks with our LT. Deal with it,” he told Dallas, then walked out.
“That was kind of sweet, in a Jenkinson way,” Peabody commented.
Eve just pinched the bridge of her nose. “Jesus. Let’s break this down.”
Even as they finished, Trueheart poked his adorably earnest face back in the door. “Sorry, Lieutenant. Nadine Furst is here looking for you.”
“Here?”
“Yes, sir. Baxter detoured her from your office, so she planted outside the bullpen. We weren’t sure how you wanted to handle it.”
“Are we clear here, Peabody?”
“We’re clear.”
“Send her in here, Trueheart.”
“Yes, sir.”
“She’s supposed to be in Nevis or somewhere with palm trees and sand—with some stud named Bruno.”
“The one with the abs? Like mago abs? She told me about him at your holiday party.”
“Apparently he has mago abs. I’ll deal with her. You can start on any names Mira might have sent along. And make sure everyone gets the data they need to start this thing.”
“All over it.”
Peabody started for the door when Nadine walked in on shiny thigh-high boots over black skin pants, a poppy-red sweater under an open vest, and some sort of furry coat tossed over her arm.
“It’s twenty-three degrees out there, with the potential for an ice storm tonight. I left eighty-two and sunny. Your cops wouldn’t let me in, even with this.” She dropped a glossy bakery box on the conference table. “Double-chunk brownies.”
Turning down baked goods? Eve thought. Her cops had decided to throw up full shields.
“Peabody, take that into the bullpen when you go. No point in denying them chocolate.”
“I’m getting mine before they trample me. Double-chunk!”
“And probably still warm,” Nadine added. “Hi, Peabody.”
“Hey, Nadine, good Chri
stmas?”
“It wasn’t bad. You?”