But it was beyond infuriating to have a three-deep line of reporters screaming questions at her through the ironwork of her own gate. When it was personal. When it had nothing to do with the job.
She continued to sit, watching the temperature of the crowd rise even as the ambient temperature struggled up to begin to melt the snow in steady drips. Behind her, the foolish snow people she and Roarke had built were losing weight rapidly.
She considered various options, including Roarke's casual suggestion that they implement the electric current on the gate. In her mind she visualized dozens of drooling reporters jittering with the shock and dropping helplessly to the ground with their eyes rolling back white.
But she preferred, as always, a more direct approach.
She turned on the megaphone and started forward at a slow but steady speed.
"This is private property, and I am off duty at this time. Move back from the gate. Anyone coming through the gate will be arrested, charged, and detained for trespassing."
They didn't budge an inch. She could see mouths opening and closing, as questions were shot at her like arrows. Cameras were held up, pushed forward with the lenses like eager mouths waiting to swallow her.
"Your choice," she muttered. She engaged the mechanism for the gate, letting it swing open slowly as she approached.
Reporters hung onto the rungs or stampeded toward the opening. She just kept driving, kept mechanically repeating her warning.
It gave her some satisfaction to watch some of them scramble for cover when they realized she wasn't going to stop. She glanced balefully at those ballsy enough to grab the handle on the sides of her vehicle and pace her while shouting through the closed window.
The minute she cleared the gate, she slammed it shut, hoping to catch a few fingers in the process. Then, with a thin smile, she punched the accelerator and sent a pair of idiots tumbling clear.
The echoes of their curses were like music that kept her mood elevated all the way downtown.
She headed straight to the conference room when she arrived at Central and, grumbling when she found it empty, sat down to man the computer herself.
She had, by her calculations, an hour to work before she had to head to Drake and keep her first interview appointments.
Peabody had her doctors lined up like arcade ducks. Eve intended to knock them off one at a time before the end of the day. With any luck, she mused, any luck at all, she'd ring a few bells.
She brought up data:
Drake Center, New York
Nordick Clinic, Chicago
Sainte Joan d'Arc, France
Melcount Center, London
Four cities, she thought. Six bodies known.
After hammering her way through the data McNab had accessed, she narrowed her search down to these health and research centers. All had one interesting thing in common: Westley Friend had worked at, lectured at, or endorsed each of them.
"Good work, McNab," she murmured. "Excellent job. You're the key, Friend, and you're another dead man. Just who's friend were you? Computer, any personal or professional connection between Friend, Dr. Westley, and Cagney, Dr. Colin."
Working…
"Don't be in such a hurry," she said mildly. "All similar connections between subject Friend and Wo, Dr. Tia; Waverly, Dr. Michael; Vanderhaven, Dr. Hans." Enough of a list for now, she decided. "Engage."
Recalibrating…working…
"You do that little thing," she murmured and pushed away from the desk to get a cup of coffee. She winced at the smell instantly. She'd gotten spoiled, she thought, as the sludgy brew sat nastily in the mug. There'd been a day when she'd slugged down a dozen cups of Cop Central poison without a complaint.
Now, even looking at it made her shudder.
Amused at herself, she set it aside and wished to God that Peabody would report in so she could get some decent coffee out of her office.
She was considering making a dash for it herself, when Peabody walked in, closed the door behind her.