He drank half the mug. “Before they get their lovebird asses in here, are you still cutting Peabody loose tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I was going to cancel it—had to—but Roarke stepped in. He’ll cover for her. How did I get to the point I’m letting a civilian cover for my partner?”
“It’s the right civilian.”
“Yeah, but still . . . Shit. Do you have to pull McNab back in?”
“Nah. I’ve got enough boys to work his stuff. You can have Callendar if you need her since she’s got a good rhythm with you and the rest. The wife says I gotta watch this year, and won’t take no.” He grimaced into his coffee. “I gotta watch a bunch of Hollywood types in fancy getups making speeches and shit. I blame you.”
“Me?” Shock, insult vibrated. “Blame Nadine.”
“I blame her, too.” He looked at the board, scanned the names, the faces. “How sure are you they’re on there?”
“At least one of them’s there. At least one. You don’t break into one of Roarke’s places—and this one was high-end—unless you live there or have legit access. I think he or they live there. Know the building, knew Banks. That’s what plays, and since it plays, these are the ones who best fit the profile.”
She got more coffee as he studied the board. “I have to watch, too.”
“Your own fault.”
“It’s Nadine’s fault,” Eve insisted, with considerable frustration. “I was doing the job. She wrote the damn book, then the script thing. And if she wins this thing? Every time I think it’s going to ease off—there are people saying: Oh, I read the book, saw the vid. Big fan! Like I give a cold crap about any of that. If she wins this damn thing, it’s going to be an even bigger pain in my ass.”
She cut herself off mid rant when Whitney stepped in.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant, Captain. I noted you’d reserved the conference room. I’m only here for a short time this morning as Anna and I are attending Derrick Pearson’s memorial.” He walked to the board as he spoke. “He’s one of eighteen now.”
“It’s a tough one, Commander,” Feeney said.
“Yes.”
They went back, Eve knew. Way back. But it wouldn’t be Jack and Ryan under these circumstances.
“Are these your primary suspects?”
“At this time, yes, sir.”
“From your last report, you’ve found no direct link to either Paul Rogan or Wayne Denby.”
“Not to them or to any of the victims as yet.”
“Not to Derrick,” Whitney murmured. “So if I happen to see one of these faces at the memorial . . .”
“I’d very much appreciate it, should that transpire, if you would bring said individual into Central.”
Whitney smiled, grimly. “You can count on it. I’ll stay for the briefing, or as much as I can. Is that real coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
She moved to pour him some herself, heard Peabody’s clump, McNab’s prance. “Peabody—” Eve’s brows drew together at Peabody’s overbright eyes and wildly patterned scarf. “Before you settle in, go program another pot of coffee from my office.”
“You got it! Good morning, Commander! Hey, Feeney! Be right back!” Exclamation points struck every couple of words before she all but bounced away.
McNab lifted his skinny shoulders in a gesture as sheepish as his smile. “She’s a little buzzed,” he explained to Eve.
“She’s what?”
“Departmentally approved booster,” he said quickly. “She put in a long night because grateful—me, too—about the Oscar thing. Beyond mega thanks on that, Dallas.”