Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

With some dignity, he brushed off his shirt. “I’d like to see you turn down a bribe of Hunka-Chunka Chips. Every man has his weakness, Dallas.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll kick your well-toned ass later.”

“Sweetheart, you noticed.”

“Bite me.” But she studied him as she broke the tube’s seal. “Listen, how’s your caseload?”

“Well, as you’re my lieutenant I should say I’m ridiculously overworked. I was just coming in from court when I was distracted by Furst’s ass and cookies.”

Keying in his code, he ordered a tube of ginger ale from the machine. “My boy’s writing up the three’s on one we caught last night. Double D that went nasty. Guy’d been out drinking and whoring, according to the spouse. They got into it when he crawled home, smacked each other around—as per usual according to the neighbors and previous reports. But this time she waited until he’d passed out, then cut off his dick with a pair of shears.”

“Ow.”

“Fucking A,” Baxter agreed, and took a long gulp. “Guy bled out before the MTs got there. Damn ugly mess, let me tell you. And the guy’s dick? She’d stuffed it in the recycler, just to make sure it didn’t get in any more trouble.”

“Pays to be thorough.”

“You women are cold and terrifying creatures. This one? She’s damn proud of it. Says she’s going to be a hero to neofems throughout our fair land. Maybe so.”

“You got that closed. Anything else hot?”

“We don’t have any more actives than we can handle right now.”

“Anything you don’t feel comfortable passing on?”

“You want me to dump my caseloads on somebody else. I’m your boy.”

“I want you and Trueheart on witness duty. My residence.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I’ll get my boy. They did two kids?” His face sobered as they walked toward the bull pen. “Did them while they slept?”

“It’d have been worse if they’d been awake. You and Trueheart are babysitting the eyewitness. Nine-year-old female. Keep it off the log for now. I still have to report to Whitney.”

She moved through the bull pen, then into the glorified closet that was her office.

As predicted, Nadine Furst, Channel 75’s on-air ace, sat in Eve’s ratty desk chair. She was perfectly groomed, her streaky blonde hair swept back from her foxy face. Her jacket and pants were the color of ripe pumpkin, with a stark white shirt beneath that somehow made the whole getup more female.

She stopped recording notes into her memo book when Eve walked in. “Don’t hurt me. I saved you a cookie.”

Saying nothing, Eve jerked a thumb, then took the chair Nadine vacated. When the silence went on, Nadine cocked her head. “Don’t I get a lecture? Aren’t you going to yell at me? Don’t you want your cookie?”

“I just came from the morgue. There’s a little girl on a slab. Her throat’s cut from here, to about here.” Eve tapped a finger on both sides of her own throat.

“I know.” Nadine sat in the single visitor’s chair. “Or I know some of it. A whole family, Dallas. However hard-shelled you and I might be, that gets through. And with a home invasion like this, the public needs some of the details, so they can protect themselves.”

Eve said nothing, just lifted her eyebrows.

“That’s part of it,” Nadine insisted. “I’m not saying ratings aren’t involved, or I don’t want my journalistic teeth in something this juicy. But the sanctity of the home should mean something. Keeping your kids safe matters.”

“See the media liaison.”

“The ML doesn’t have squat.”

“Should tell you something, Nadine.” Eve lifted a hand before Nadine could sound off. “What I’ve got at this point isn’t going to help the public, and I’m not inclined to give you the inside edge. Unless . . .”