Secrets in Death (In Death 45)

She thought of McNab’s wardrobe, his earlobe full of rings, the way he bounced. Settled down wouldn’t have been the term she’d have applied.

But she did agree that, under it all, he was a solid cop.

“Okay. I’ve got to get going.”

“I’ll give him a hand anyway.” Feeney’s gaze shifted morosely back to his screen. “When I finish this bitch.”

* * *

As she drove to Seventy-Five, Eve ticked off what needed to be done. “Peabody, run this Mitch L. Day character. I didn’t get to that.”

“On it.”

As Peabody all but sang the two words, Eve gave her a wary glance. “What’s up with you?”

“Just feeling pretty mag. Due to loose pants—not really any looser, but still loose—and your absofab offer of Mexico, I’m hitting this shop on my way home tonight, and buying this outfit I’ve had my eye on. It’s all flowy and swirly. It’s Mexico perfecto.”

“Wow. That’s just the best news ever!”

Even Eve’s exaggerated sarcasm didn’t dent Peabody’s mood. “It has these adorbs little ribbons for straps, so when McNab tugs them, whoosh, I’m naked.”

Eve’s eyes went to slits. “And this, this is how you repay me?”

“I didn’t hug you. Mitch L. Day—officially Mitchell Edwin Dayton—age thirty-eight, Murray Hill address. One divorce—no offspring. Currently married to Sashay DuPris, age thirty-two.”

“So he’s married and was bouncing on Mars.”

“Updated data says DuPris, a model—oh, I’ve seen her—resides at an Upper East Side address. It doesn’t list them as officially separated. She’s major high fashion, Dallas, big-time. Back to him, no offspring in current marriage. Employed at Seventy-Five, on-air personality, since 2055. No criminal. A lot of traffic violations. He’s originally from Minnesota. Huh, farm boy. His parents—forty-five years married—own and operate a farm. Two siblings.

“Do you want more? I can always find dish on on-air personalities.”

“That’s enough for now,” Eve said as she wound her way through the parking complex for Seventy-Five.

She dealt with security—in the lot, at the door—noted all the humans wore black armbands. And the screens in the visitor’s lobby all showed Mars at various splashy events wearing various splashy gowns and outfits.

Eve stopped at the next security station, badged the operator.

“Nadine Furst. She’s expecting us.”

“Yes, Lieutenant, you’re already cleared. Do you need an escort or do you remember the way?”

“I remember.”

She also remembered her way to the newsroom, and where she’d first met Mars.

She aimed there first. There the screens showed various world events, reporters doing remotes, and one screen dedicated to Mars.

But if she remembered the desk correctly—and she was damn sure she did—someone else occupied it.

The man sat in shirtsleeves, his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair. Sharp cheekbones all but sliced through his taut, dark skin, while his hair formed a perfect skullcap of ebony.

“NYPSD.” Eve held up her badge. “I’m looking for Larinda Mars’s desk.”

“It’d be in her office.” He rose, offered a hand. “Barry Hewitt, political beat. It’s nice to meet you, even under the circumstances, Lieutenant. Ms. Mars has her own office. I’d be happy to s

how you, but I know Bebe’s going to want to speak to you.”

“Who’s Bebe?”