Good, Eve thought. Good for him. But she kept her cop scowl in place. “The fact that Detective Moron bypassed procedure does not negate the necessity for your briefing.”
“He wouldn’t have had to tell me if you had.”
It was the mutter that did it. Eve swung into Homicide. “My office. Now.”
“You put the thumb on Renquist last night.” Peabody trotted behind Eve. “I should have been called in for the search. You bypassed procedure.”
Eve shoved her door closed. “Are you questioning my methods or my authority, Officer?”
“Your methods, Lieutenant. Sort of. I mean, jeez. If he’d been home last night, you’d have him, and I’d’ve missed it. As your aide—”
“As my aide you do what you’re told when you’re told. If you’re dissatisfied with this arrangement, put it in writing and file it.”
“You worked the case last night without me. You held an op briefing this morning without me. The exam shouldn’t have taken priority over my involvement in this case.”
“I decide what takes priority. It’s done. If you have any more bitching and complaining to do about this matter, I repeat, do so in writing and file it through the proper channels.”
Peabody’s chin jutted up. “I have no wish to file a complaint, Lieutenant.”
“Your choice. Complete the paperwork on your desk. Meet me in the garage in twenty-five. You’ll be briefed en route.”
It was going to be a long day, Eve imagined, as she walked through Katie Mitchell’s loft, just as she’d walked through the hologram. And a long night.
Wherever Renquist had tucked himself, he’d done a good job of it.
Your move, she thought, and gulped down more coffee.
She’d thrown a net over every hotel in the sector, but she hadn’t found him. Even while she paced the loft, the search was widening.
She stepped up to the doorway of the office where Roarke and Feeney worked.
“Nothing,” Roarke said, sensing her. “It’s more likely he’s using a private residence. Short-term rental. We’re searching that area.”
She checked her wrist unit once more. There were hours yet, and she couldn’t risk going in and out of the building. She walked back to the kitchen, poked at Mitchell’s AutoChef.
“Restless?” Roarke said from behind her.
“I hate the waiting, doing nothing but going over and over it in my head. Makes me antsy.”
He leaned down to kiss the back of her head. “So does having a spat with Peabody.”
“Why do men always say women have spats? Men don’t have spats. It’s a stupid, weenie word.”
He rubbed her shoulders. Because they were like rock, he made a mental note to schedule a relaxation treatment for her. Whether she liked it or not. “Why don’t you ask her how the exam went?”
“She wants me to know, she’ll tell me.”
He leaned down closer, brushing his lips over her hair, then speaking directly into her ear. “She thinks she tanked it.”
“Shit.” Eve fisted her hands. “Shit, fuck, damn.” She swung to the freezer, sorted through it, and confiscated a quart of Strawberry Fields Frozen Dessert.
She found a spoon, stuck it in, then marched off toward the bedroom.
“There’s my girl,” Roarke murmured.
Peabody sat on the edge of the bed, studying the morning briefing on her PPC. She glanced up when Eve entered, nearly had her sulky look in place when she spotted the quart of ice cream.
“Here.” Eve shoved it into her hand. “Eat this and stop pouting. I need you at a hundred percent.”