“Peabody?”
“She would dare, Ms. Fryburn. She would absolutely dare. And lockup isn’t very pleasant.”
A flush from insult and temper stained Jessie’s cheeks. “I’m calling my lawyer. I’m not saying another word until I do. If she advises me to talk to you, fine. Otherwise.” She lifted her chin so that Eve had to resist taking the invitation to rap it with her fist. “You can do your worst.”
“She really doesn’t understand just how good your worst is. Or how bad—depending on your point of view.” Peabody said this out of the corner of her mouth as Jessie stalked to a ’link.
“The only reason she’s still standing is because I respect loyalty, and she’s clueless. He’s a nice guy, he took care of his dying mother. He didn’t cause any trouble. A nice, neat, quiet neighbor. Fits profile.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Haul her in, if we need to. Plow through the lawyer and talk her into working with an Ident artist. I want a goddamn image. And I want a warrant to get through that door across the hall.”
She yanked out her communicator. “Commander,” she began when he came on. “I need some pressure.”
Time leaked out of the day, and the gloom edged into an early twilight. More storms circled, threatened, shot out heat lightning and threatening blasts of thunder.
She danced with the lawyer, until she thought her ears might bleed, but in the end a reluctant Jessie agreed to a session with an Ident artist. As long as it took place in her own apartment.
“You think I’m being stubborn.” Jessie sat, arms folded and frowned at Eve. “But I consider Gerry a friend. I watched what he went through with his mom, and it was heart-breaking. I’ve never seen anyone die before. She fought so hard, and he was right there, in the trenches with her. And when she was too weak to fight, he kept right on.”
Obviously moved, she bit her lip to keep her voice steady. “He cleaned up after. He bathed her, fed her, sat with her. He wouldn’t let anyone else do the dirty work. I’ve never seen that kind of devotion. I don’t know if I have it in me.”
“That kind of experience might push a person over the edge.”
“Maybe. Maybe, but . . . God, I hate this. He’s already suffered so much. Whenever I saw him after, after it was over, he looked like a ghost. Just getting through, just getting by. He lost weight, looked nearly as sick as she had. Then he seemed to come back. The last few months, he seemed to find his feet again. You want me to think he’s crazy, some sort of insane monster. But I’ve lived across the hall from him for two and a half years, and he’s not.”
“There are three young people dead who looked at him, who I believe looked right into his face. They didn’t think he was a monster either.”
“He’s just out on assignment, you’ll see. He’s just out working, trying to get his life back on track. You’ll see.”
“One of us will,” Eve replied.
Chapter 21
Eve peered at the door of apartment 1208 as if some of the heat of her impatience would gather and bore holes through the panel so she could see.
One simple authorization was keeping her out, one simple go-in-and-look was all she needed.
Circumstantial, her ass. She knew.
She believed in the working of law. The rules, the checkpoints. Cops had no right to break into a private home like stormtroopers. On hunches, on whims, on personal vendettas.
Probable cause. She needed it. And she had it. Why in the hell didn’t a judge have enough working brain cells to see she had it?
Patience, she ordered herself. The warrant would come through, and she’d go through the door.
But waiting made her imagine how it might have run if she’d come here with Roarke. Would she have used her master to gain entrance? Hell, he’d have finessed the locks before she’d pulled it out of her pocket.
And then, of course, whatever she’d found inside would be inadmissible. Going in the easy way would have presented Stevenson with a walk.
Checks and balances, she reminded herself. The rules of law.
God, what was taking so long?
Peabody stepped out of Jessie’s apartment where Eve had stationed her. “She’s still stalling,” Peabody reported under her breath. “Yancy’s good, and he’s building up a rapport with her, gaining trust, but it’s not going to be quick.”
Straining against impotence, Eve glanced in the apartment. Yancy, the Ident artist, kept up a cheerful banter as he worked with his kit. He was young, but he was good, he was solid.