Eve turned back. “He hassling you?”
“Yes. Not exactly.” She huffed out a breath. “No.”
“Which is it?”
“He just makes sure I know about all the hot women he’s sleeping with, and how he’s practically doing handsprings since I cut him loose. And he doesn’t even have the decency to do it to my face. He just makes sure I hear about it.”
“It sounds like he’s moved on. You did cut him loose, Peabody. And you’re hanging with Charles.”
“It’s not like that with Charles,” Peabody insisted, speaking of the sexy licensed companion who’d become her friend. And had never been her lover. “I told you.”
“But you didn’t tell McNab. Your business,” Eve said quickly when Peabody started to speak. “And I don’t want any part of it. McNab wants to screw every female in the five boroughs, and it doesn’t interfere with the job, it’s none of my business. And none of yours. Leave the priority requests for the morgue and the lab, then go home. Report in at eight hundred hours.”
Alone, Eve sat back at her desk. “Computer, status on identification search.”
SEARCH EIGHTY-EIGHT-POINT-TWO PERCENT COMPLETE. NO MATCHES.
“Expand search statewide.”
AFFIRMATIVE. WORKING . . .
Eve sat back with her coffee, and hoped for a name. Hoped for quick justice for Bryna Bankhead.
Despite the caffeine, Eve managed a more restful sleep on her office floor than she had in the big, empty bed at home. When she woke, she widened the thus far negative identity search. Taking yet another cup of coffee with her into the locker room, she washed up, finger-combed her hair, and rolled up the sleeves of Roarke’s shirt.
It was just after eight when she walked into Captain Feeney’s office in EDD. He was standing at his own AutoChef with his back to her. Like Eve, he was in his shirtsleeves, with his weapon harness in place. His wiry, ginger-colored hair had probably seen a comb that morning, but looked no tidier than hers.
She stepped in, sniffed the air. “What’s that smell?”
He whirled around, his long, basset hound face covered with surprise. And, she thought, guilt.
“Nothing. What’s up?”
She sniffed again. “Doughnuts. You got doughnuts in here.”
“Shut up, shut up.” He stalked by her to shut the door. “You want the whole squad pouring in here?” Knowing a closed door wouldn’t be enough, he locked it. “What do you want?”
“I want a doughnut.”
“Look, Dallas, the wife’s gone on some health kick. You can’t get a decent bite to eat in my house these days with all the tofu this and rehydrated vegetable that. A man’s gotta have some fat and sugar once in awhile or his system suffers for it.”
“I’m with you, so’s the crowd. Gimme a doughnut.”
“Goddamn it.” He strode over to the AutoChef, popped it open. Inside were a half dozen doughnuts, fragrant in the low heat.
“Holy shit. Fresh doughnuts.”
“Bakery down the block does a few dozen reals every morning. You know what they charge for one of these bastards?”
Quick as a whiplash, Eve reached in, snagged one, bit in. “Worth it,” she said around a mouthful of fat and cream.
“Just keep it down. You start making yummy noises, they’ll beat the door in.” He took a doughnut and blissfully chewed the first bite. “Nobody wants to live forever, right? I tell the wife, hey, I’m a cop. Cops face death every day.”
“Damn straight. You got jelly, too?”
Before she could reach in, he closed the AutoChef. Smartly. “So, being a cop, facing death, all that, who gives a horse’s ass about pumping a little fat into the arteries?”
“Really superior fat, too.” She licked sugar off her fingers. She could’ve blackmailed him into a second doughnut, but figured she’d just get sick off it. “Got a sidewalk splat last night.”