Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

But first she contacted the list of people she felt might be targets if the UNSUB switched directions. She started with Mavis.

“Benedict Mantal, answering for Mavis Freestone.”

“Ben.” Eve looked into the clear eyes of Mavis’s personal security. “Dallas.”

“Hey, LT, Mavis is rehearsing.”

“So I hear.” Clearly, she heard Mavis advising all—each and every one—to live it up until it’s done.

“We got the word,” he told her. “Leonardo and the kid are backstage. I’ve got Grommet in with me, and he’s on them. We’ll have them covered twenty-four/seven.”

“Good to know.”

“She’ll be wrapping this up if you want to talk to her.”

Now join hands, sing with the band. Dance and shout, let it out! Make some noise!

“It’s a crowd-pleaser,” Ben said with a smile on his sturdy, square-jawed face.

“I hear that. Just let her know I checked in. I’ll catch her later. Keep them close, Ben.”

“Count on it.”

She would, Eve thought as she ended the transmission and made the next.

As she walked into the bullpen to grab Peabody, Santiago swung on his coat. “Caught one,” he told her while Carmichael grabbed her own gear. “Guy went splat off the roof of a midrise on Wooster.”

“Jumper?”

“To be determined. Move your hot buns, Carmichael.” When Eve’s eyes narrowed, Santiago held up a hand. “It’s okay, she asked me to say that.”

“Affirmative.” Carmichael hustled up. “Haven’t put on an ounce since Thanksgiving. He’s giving me motivation to hold that through the end of the year.”

“Don’t give any motivation in public,” Eve ordered, turned to Peabody. “Your hot buns are with me.”

“Aw, that’s so nice! I’ve gained two pounds, four ounces since Thanksgiving, but that’s actually a personal record—on the good side. Last year—”

“You’ll never get motivation again if you say another word about your ass.”

Peabody grabbed her coat, jogged to catch up. “Can I say something about Carmichael’s?”

“No.”

“It was going to be complimentary.” Peabody pulled her mile-long scarf out of her pocket—bright pink and green stripes today—and began wrapping it around her neck like a boa constrictor. “Where are we going?”

“Arsenial Investigators. Low-end PI, West Twenty-fourth off Eleventh. We’re looking for former detective Gina Tortelli—one of the dirty cops brushed out during the Roth sweep. She’s one of their two listed operatives.”

“She wrote you?”

“Can’t say for certain, but her mother did.”

“Her mom?”

“Her mother isn’t pleased with the part I played in cleaning Roth’s house.”

“It damn well needed cleaning,” Peabody said with some force as with some flicks of the wrist she twisted the scarf, folded bits of it, and had the boa constrictor loosely knotted and fluffed.

“In her mind I’m a brownnosing, traitorous cunt and godless daughter of a whore with the loyalty of a jackal.”