When they shoved their way off, Jenkinson kept pace with Eve toward the bullpen. “Reineke and I are clear right now if you need more hands with this case.”
“We’ll see how it goes.”
The minute they stepped into the bullpen, Jenkinson leaped forward. “Hey! Are those sticky buns?”
Santiago stuffed the last of one—from the box Eve had left in the break room—in his mouth, mumbled incomprehensibly over it.
Eve kept going toward her office, so whoever had already reported for duty could fight over whatever was left.
Eve hit her office AutoChef for coffee, tossed off her coat and winter gear, and studied her board with rested eyes.
She had two police artist concepts of the first two costumes. Not Yancy’s work, but more than decent. And still, she imagined, the victims’ impressions, their fear, might have lent some drama to the looks.
She put in a tag to Yancy, left him a v-mail requesting he work with Daphne Strazza at the hospital in addition to the rental crew. She could use a good sketch of the devil.
Since Peabody hadn’t reported in, Eve contacted the first victims, ran into a house droid that gave her grief. She geared up for a fight, then heard the click of Mira’s heels heading to her office.
“We’ll get back to you.” She disconnected, held up a finger as Mira came in, and tagged Peabody. “Get your ass to work and contact the first two pairs of vics, arrange interview times. There or here. Make it happen.”
She clicked off before Peabody could respond, turned to Mira.
“Sorry.”
Waving it off, Mira slipped out of her soft blue winter coat to reveal a rosy red suit. The clicking heels went with a pair of silver-gray short boots, with the combo showing off excellent legs.
“You want some of that tea stuff?”
“I’d love it, thanks.”
“Use my chair. Seriously.”
“I absolutely will. And welcome back. You look rested. Amazing what just a couple of days away can do.”
“You should’ve seen me yesterday.” Eve programmed the tea, and while its floral scent wafted through her office, passed it to Mira.
Mira sat, crossed those excellent legs, smiled at Eve out of her soft blue eyes. “I looked at Daphne Strazza’s medical chart. You and Roarke may very well have saved her life.” Sitting back, Mira brushed back a strand of mink-colored hair.
Eve cocked her head. “Did you and Mr. Mira head for the sun, too?”
“No, but that’s a compliment. I decided to add some more highlights, get through the winter doldrums. Actually, Trina talked me into it.”
Eve goggled. “You’re going to Trina now?”
“I am. My hairdresser moved to Brooklyn, and Trina—though I know she can be … opinionated—is excellent.”
Opinionated, Eve mused. She’d have used pushy, scary, and in-your-face. And she couldn’t believe she was talking about hair anyway.
“Okay, well. Daphne Strazza.”
“I’ll have a written evaluation for you this morning, and she’s agreed to talk to me again. Physically, as you know, the attack was brutal, the beating and the rapes. Emotionally, only more so. She’s blocking a great deal of it, and that’s to be expected. Additionally, the blow to the head could be responsible for blank spots. She was tortured, terrorized, and I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.”
“Not so far.” Eve sat on the corner of her desk. “Everyone I’ve spoken to about her describes her as sweet—that’s a repeated word. Personable, a perfect hostess, generous. It may be cynical, but some of my takeaway on that is she’s naive.”
“I wouldn’t disagree. She’s young—even younger emotionally, I’d say, than her years. Soft would be another word I’d use. Malleable.”
“Okay, that’s the word.” Eve shot a finger in the air. “Malleable. People don’t speak of her dead husband in the same terms. Perfectionist, impatient, domineering, cold.”
“And brilliant. I didn’t know him personally, but I knew his reputation. Those in his field, with that reputation, are often cold and domineering. The classic God complex.”
“Right. And often when an older, successful individual—with a domineering personality—marries a younger spouse, that individual goes one of two ways. Pampers or bullies. I vote for bully.”
“I’ve only spoken with her once, for less than an hour, and was careful to keep it more on the surface. But my impression of their relationship matches yours. Small things. She refers to him as ‘my husband’ more than she uses his name.”
“Yeah, I caught that.”
“He was, I believe, more authority figure than mate or partner. His death frightens her more than grieves her. When I asked her about her routines, her interests, her friends—to try to make a connection—she spoke more of his expectations, his wishes, his social circle than her own. And there’s a look,” Mira added, “a look in the eyes, a body language, a tone, when someone’s been bullied or abused.”
“Yeah, there is. She’s got all of that, but I can’t be sure it’s from the husband or a result of this attack.”
In her pretty suit, Mira sipped her tea as if they sat in front of a classic work of art rather than a murder board.
“Are you considering, if she’s been abused, she had a part in her husband’s death?”
“I have to consider it, but a partnership doesn’t fit. Not with what was done to her. Her injuries were brutal, and she wasn’t playing it when we found her wandering the streets, naked, freezing, in the middle of the night.”