“Forgive that. I mean, it’s never going to happen, but hypothetically if, say, Roarke and I lost our minds for one wild night and had hot, crazed sex involving many multiple orgasms, then came to our senses and begged your forgiveness. Owned it, you know? Could you forgive us?”
Eve drove in silence a moment. “Well, it would be hard. It would be work, but marriage is work. So’s partnership. I think I could. It would take time and that work, but I think I could forgive both of you. After I boiled you in big vats to make it easier to peel the skin, very slowly and carefully, off your bones while I danced to the music of your agonized screams. Then I made you watch while I fashioned people suits out of your skins for a couple of sparring droids I would then beat into rubble that I’d bury along with your quivering, skinless bodies in unmarked graves. After that,” Eve said with a considering nod, “I think I could forgive you.”
“That’s good to know. It’s good to know the conditions. Except, I don’t think you can fashion people suits because you don’t know how to sew.”
“I’d learn. For something this important, I’d learn. Stupid parking, stupid parking. Wait!”
Peabody sucked in her breath as Eve punched it, went vertical, zipped, zoomed, and arrowed into a spot just vacated at the curb.
“Bagged it.”
“I might have to pee again.”
“Forget it. We’re dealing with the baby slut, then heading back to Central. I want to update my board, think, and have some goddamn coffee.”
“How did you know that car was going to pull out?”
“I’ve got a sense.”
They walked a block in busy SoHo with crowds loaded with shopping bags or hustling out of the cold into restaurants where warm scents teased out into the winter air.
The gallery display window featured an elongated sculpture of a woman bowed over backward nearly into a U with an expression of either agonizing grief or mindless ecstasy.
Either way Eve found it mildly disturbing and much preferred the painting of a city scene that mirrored the bustle going on around them.
Inside, the walls and floors were a soft cream, making the gallery feel like the inside of a fancy box.
She saw a painting of what seemed to be a series of big blue dots connected by a jagged red line.
And wondered: Why?
In the hushed reverence a woman’s heels clicked sharply.
Eve recognized Charity Downing from her ID shot. Young, several rungs up from pretty with a waterfall of blond hair, deeply blue eyes, a full and generous mouth.
She wore blue almost the same color as the dots in a s
lim, short dress.
“Good afternoon. I’m Charity. If I can . . . Oh God, I know who you are. I recognize you.” She glanced quickly over her shoulder, quickly came forward, dropped her voice. “This is about Edward. I heard. Please, I don’t want my boss, my coworkers to know. I can take my break. Please, can I meet you across the street? The coffee shop right across the street. I can’t talk about this here.”
“You’re not going to try to run, are you, Charity?”
“Where would I go—and why would I? I just don’t want anyone here to know I was . . . with Edward that way. It’s right across the street. I just need to get Marilee to cover for me, get my coat.”
“All right. Make it fast.”
“You don’t really think she’d rabbit?” Peabody asked as they went out again.
“No. If she killed him or if she didn’t, she had to know the cops would want to talk to her sooner or later.”
Eve jaywalked—it wasn’t hard if you were fast and agile enough—and stepped into the coffee shop.
It didn’t smell as bad as most—boy, had she gotten spoiled—so she grabbed a four-top that gave her a view of the art gallery.
Peabody studied the automated server. “Maybe I could get another latte. I missed cake twice today. No, tea’s probably a better bet, and they have jasmine. Jasmine tea’s nice. Want some?”
“Not in this life or the next. She’s coming out.”