“A lot of the watching may be on screen, on the Internet,” he pointed out. “And if she’s involved in law enforcement, it might be someone you see as a matter of course.”
“See but don’t see. Just like she whines about in her correspondence.”
He shook his head. “You see everything. It’s part of your talent. And I think, when you catch her, you’ll know her. Maybe not her name, but her face.”
“Maybe that’s creepier,” Eve breathed out. “The last contact was right after the Sanctuary case. She had a lot to say—young girls again, I think that’s a trigger. Could be something happened to her when she was a kid. That’s something to dig into. Maybe . . .”
She rose, circled her board. “The abuse. Maybe she senses it. She’s studied me, read about me, watched, extrapolated for her own means. And maybe she senses some of it because she experienced some of it. Young girls. Maybe.”
She blew out another breath. “Reaching.”
“Maybe not. We knew each other, you and I, didn’t we? On some level.”
“Two lost souls, you said.”
“She’s another, isn’t she? One who’s chosen murder instead of the law, or money, as we did, respectively. Choices we made because we refused to be victims. A choice you made—though I believe you were born a cop—to stand for victims. In her warped way, so is she. Standing for victims, and for you.”
“She’s creating victims. But yeah, I get you. Here they come,” she added as she heard the clomp and prance that announced Peabody and McNab’s arrival.
“They’ll want food.”
“Crap.” Eve started to snarl, then remembered it was barely seven in the morning.
Her partner and the e-geek she loved came in.
“Get what you want out of the kitchen,” she said before either of them could speak. “And make it snappy.”
“Score!” McNab, still holding Peabody’s hand, dragged her along on his dash to the kitchen.
And all but blinded Eve with the blur of the kaleidoscope of stars decking his electric-blue shirt tucked into the screaming green of his cargos.
“I’ll leave you to fill them in while I finish up some work,” Roarke told her. “Then I can give you about an hour.”
“Appreciate it. Who was the sizzly French skirt?”
Roarke looked blank for a moment, then smiled. “You mean Cosette—Cosette Deveroix. Chief cyber engineer, Paris office.”
“What’s a cyber engineer?” she wondered, then held up a hand. “Never mind. I wouldn’t understand anyway, and don’t need to since I’ve got you. And him,” she added, jerking a thumb at McNab as he came out, shoveling in pancakes.
“Howzit going?”
“I’ll tell you both when Peabody gets the hell out here.”
“I meant more like how was Christmas and stuff.”
“Good, and done. Does that shirt run on batteries?”
He grinned around more pancakes, a man with a pretty face, clever green eyes, and a long tail of blond hair, all topping a skinny build. “Body heat. I get revved, they really shine.”
He turned his head, the spiral of silver rings along his earlobe sparkling as Peabody came out. She carried a plate holding a small scoop of scrambled eggs, two strips of bacon, and half a piece of unbuttered toast.
“Sorry, it took me a while to figure out what I wanted versus what I should have, and I compromised. I shouldn’t have the bacon, but . . . it’s bacon.”
But distracted, Eve continued to stare at Peabody’s feet. Not the pink cowboy boots, but still pink—hard-candy-pink boots that hit about mid-thigh with a thick fluff of snow-white furry stuff that glittered
. The inch-wide soles were lime green.
“What do you have on your feet?” Eve demanded.