Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

“Either Wright’s an oblivious moron or a hell of an actor.”

“He gets solid reviews.”

Eve frowned, turned her head. “Does he?”

“I did a search on that, and more than one said he was the best thing in some crap play. Authentic’s what comes across.”

“He’s got no alibi for any of the attacks. Claims he doesn’t remember and has no record of his whereabouts on the nights of the first two, and claims he was home alone for the last two.”

She rose, scowled at the two-way glass. “He’s white, and L’Page thinks the guy who pushed at her at the gala was white. He’s the right height. But, Jesus, he doesn’t ring. Not for the killer, not for somebody who’d pass information to someone, except in rambling conversation—but that’s a factor. He connects to the Patricks through On Screen, and he’s worked in the Strazza home, but he doesn’t ring. Yet.”

“Baxter and Trueheart just logged in. Olsen and Tredway are coming in.”

“Let’s try for a conference room.”

Something had to shake loose, she thought. But right now the big-ass tree she beat her head against seemed immovable.

“I figured that, so I grabbed Room B.”

“Good. We’ll

set it up now.”

Maybe the act of creating a new board, arranging photos, evidence, reports would help shake the damn tree.

17

As Eve finished setting up the board, Peabody stepped out of the conference room. She came back with a couple of pita pockets that smelled iffy at best.

“I’m fading,” Peabody confessed. “I need something more than half an energy bar. You do, too.”

Eve eyed the offered pocket cynically. “What’s in it?”

“Veggie ham, nondairy American cheese, and shredded spinach. Everything else in Vending looked worse. At least it’s sort of hot.”

“Why is there always spinach?” Eve wondered, tried a bite. “It’s terrible.”

Peabody sampled. “Yeah, but still, sort of hot. I’ve lost six pounds.”

“Depend on Vending, you’ll whither away to nothing.”

“That’ll never happen, but I’ve lost six and kept it off for eighteen days and counting.”

“I thought you weren’t going to obsess about the numbers?”

“I like obsessing about the good numbers, and my currently loose pants. It motivates. If I’m not motivated, I’ll eat a bunch of brownies.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Mmm, brownies. Then I obsess about packing on enough to crush McNab’s skinny ass whenever I’m on top.”

Eve slapped two fingers to the corner of her twitching eye, noted Peabody’s innocent smile. “That was on purpose.”

“Just breaking the tension.” Peabody took another bite of the pocket. “But now I so really want a brownie.”

Shaking her head, Eve decided if she had to eat a revolting fake sandwich, she might as well top it off with the terrible cop coffee in the conference room AutoChef.

She was scowling over the first sip when Baxter and Trueheart came in.

“What is that smell?” Baxter demanded.

“Vending lunch,” Peabody told him.