• • •
Three hours later, she was back in Commander Whitney’s office, trying not to gnash her teeth. “She’s got another one somewhere,” Eve insisted. “And the diaries are in it.”
“Nobody’s stopping you from looking for it, Dallas.”
“Fine, that’s fine.” She whirled around the office as she spoke. Energy was pumping now, and she wanted action. “What are we going to do about this?”
She jerked a hand at the file on his desk.
“You’ve got the disc I took from the safe-deposit box and the print out I ran. It’s right there, commander. A blackmail list: names and amounts. And Simpson’s name is there, in tidy alphabetical order.”
“I can read, Dallas.” He resisted the urge to rub at the tension gathering at the base of his skull. “The chief isn’t the only person named Simpson in the city, much less the country.”
“It’s him.” She was fuming and there was no place to put the steam. “We both know it. There are a number of other interesting names there, too. A governor, a Catholic bishop, a respected leader of the International Organization of Women, two high-ranking cops, an ex-Vice President—”
“I’m aware of the names,” Whitney interrupted. “Are you aware of your position, Dallas, and the consequences?” He held up a hand to silence her. “A few neat columns of names and numbers don’t mean squat. This data gets out of this office, and it’s over. You’re finished and so’s the investigation. Is that what you want?”
“No, sir.”
“You get the diaries, Dallas, find the connection between Sharon DeBlass and Lola Starr, and we’ll see where we go from there.”
“Simpson’s dirty.” She leaned over the desk. “He knew Sharon DeBlass; he was being blackmailed. And he’s doing everything he can to undermine the investigation.”
“Then we’ll have to work around him, won’t we?” Whitney put the file in his lock box. “No one knows what we have in here, Dallas. Not even Feeney. Is that clear?
“Yes, sir.” Knowing she had to be satisfied with that, she started for the door. “Commander, I’d like to point out that there’s a name absent from that list. Roarke’s not on it.”
Whitney met her eyes, nodded. “As I said, Dallas. I can read.”
Her message light was blinking when she got back to her office. A check of her E-mail turned up two calls from the medical examiner. Impatiently, Eve put the hot lead aside and returned the call.
“Finished running the tests on your neighbor, Dallas. You hit the bull’s-eye.”
“Oh, hell.” She ran her hands over her face. “Send through the results. I’ll take it from here.”
Hetta Finestein opened her door with a puff of lavender sachet and the yeasty smell of homemade bread.
“Lieutenant Dallas.”
She smiled her quiet smile and stepped back in invitation. Inside, the viewing screen was tuned to a chatty talk show where interested members of the home audience could plug in and shoot their holographic images to the studio for fuller interaction. The topic seemed to be higher state salaries for professional mothers. Just now the screen was crowded with women and children of varying sizes and vocal opinions.
“How nice of you to come by. I’ve had so many visitors today. It’s a comfort. Would you like some cookies?”
“Sure,” Eve agreed, and felt like slime. “Thanks.” She sat on the couch, let her eyes scan the tidy little apartment. “You and Mr. Finestein used to run a bakery?”
“Oh, yes.” Hetta’s voice carried from the kitchen, along with her bustling movements. “Until just a few years ago. We did very well. People love real cooking, you know. And if I do say so myself, I have quite a hand with pies and cakes.”
“You do a lot of baking here, at home.”
Hetta came in with a tray of golden cookies. “One of my pleasures. Too many people never know the joy of a home-baked cookie. So many children never experience real sugar. It’s hideously expensive, of course, but worth it.”
Eve sampled a cookie and had to agree. “I guess you must have baked the pie your husband was eating when he died.”
“You won’t find store-bought or simulations in my house,” Hetta said proudly. “Of course, Joe would gobble everything up almost as soon as I took it out of the oven. There’s not an AutoChef on the market as reliable as a good baker’s instincts and creativity.”
“You did bake the pie, Mrs. Finestein.”
The woman blinked, lowered her lashes. “Yes, I did.”