Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

What had infected her? Nadine wondered, sitting back, blowing fragrant smoke at the ceiling. Childhood trauma, a tragic love affair, or just fucked-up DNA? Any or all, she thought, or a dozen more roots. Madness, the little crazies and the big, had all manner of beginnings.

She shifted tasks as her comp signaled an incoming.

Ms. Furst,

Mr. Cabott is messengering over a packet for your attention. Please respond directly to Mr. Cabott tomorrow morning after eight a.m., after you’ve received and reviewed the contents. He will be unavailable until that time.

Mistique Brady

Intern to Della Bonds

Nadine frowned at the e-mail. Unavailable, my ass, she thought, and was tempted to contact her producer right then. She was supposedly still on vacation.

Still, Bing Cabott wouldn’t spring for a messenger unless he thought it was something solid, so she’d look it over—then contact him. Or maybe just tag Della, who’d likely know more in any case.

• • •

She looked down at her kitty-cat pants and decided she wasn’t going to put on more professional pants for a damn messenger. But she would, pride demanded, wash off the bright pink super-hydrating facial mask, which blew because she could’ve left it on for another hour.

She scuffed off to the bathroom in her fuzzy blue slippers—again only worn when flying solo—and ran the water in the sink to warm.

It took far too long to get from tepid to warm, in her opinion, and gave her time to glance around her bathroom.

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; Dated, she decided. The whole place was dated—and had been fine and dandy when she worked only the crime beat. But now her finances had changed, as had her career path.

She’d never give up the crime beat, but writing, well, that had been an unexpected love. She could work the crime beat, write, and do her weekly show—none of which she’d give up without a bitter and bloody fight. But she’d give up the apartment without a whimper.

Did she want to invest in a lovely and dignified old brownstone—along the lines Louise and Charles had chosen? Or did she want some shiny penthouse with a killer view? Maybe a creative loft space in the Village? A converted warehouse where she could throw amazing parties?

This was the dilemma, and why she’d made no move at all. Yet.

Time to decide, time to make that move. She’d contact a realtor after the first of the year. Or . . . she’d ask Roarke. Who knew more about real estate than the guy who owned so much of it?

One thing for certain, wherever she landed would have a kick-ass bathroom—and a spacious dressing area. Time to reap some of the benefits of her hard work, and the good luck that had landed sizzling stories in her lap.

With a glance in the mirror she considered pulling her hair out of the band that held it back in a little tail—reminded herself it was only a messenger, and she didn’t have to be camera ready.

The buzz decided her, and she walked out, as is, to answer the intercom.

• • •

Be calm, the messenger told herself. No, bored, a little bored is better. It’s late, it’s cold, you want to get this finished and go home. Bored and impatient, not calm.

She ran a hand over the bill of the flapped cap, made sure it was tilted low—and ran her fingers over the stunner in her pocket.

Nervous, she admitted. Nervous this time because this time was different. But . . . no, not really. Not really different.

Didn’t Nadine Furst profit from death and crime? The bigger, the more profit and glory? What did she do that was productive?

Nothing.

She only reaped in the fame, the fortune, and helped soil Eve’s purity.

No, not different at all. True justice, true friendship meant this was as necessary and as right as Bastwick and Ledo.

Settling, she waited, even as she itched to press the buzzer again.