“There’ll be an A-T out front when you’re ready.”
“Thanks. Pretty quick actually.” She shoved in the last of the eggs, stood to walk into the closet.
She wasn’t the comp, or Roarke, but she could damn well dress herself. Especially since she was going for black—straight black—and warm.
She grabbed trousers, a sweater, a jacket, and because she’d likely be trudging through snow, black boots that rose to her knees.
When she stepped out, Roarke arched an eyebrow. “Black Widow couldn’t look more dangerous or alluring.”
“She could handle herself.”
“See that you handle any bad guys who come at my cop.”
“Dallas smash.”
Pleased she’d made him laugh, she bent down to kiss him. “It was good, coming home together, and everything after. Makes it hard to be annoyed with the snow.”
He tugged her down for another. “Mind the roads. They’re bound to be an unholy mess.”
“You, too. See you later.”
She jogged downstairs, swung on her coat, wound a scarf around her neck for warmth, pulled on the snowflake hat, stuffed the gloves in her pockets.
And pulled them out and put them on when she stepped outside into the bitter.
The burly A-T in sober gray waited, already warm inside. She decided if she couldn’t get downtown—or anywhere else—in this machine, she’d need a damn tank.
She drove down the perfectly cleared drive, through the gates, and onto the god-awful mess of the street.
She didn’t blame the road crews—or not much—as the snow had still been coming down when the Avengers beat the snot out of Loki and his team. The good part was the streets were nearly deserted. She spotted the road crews, a couple of emergency vehicles. Considering that, she tagged Peabody on her wrist unit.
“Can you get into Central?”
“Yeah. The subway should be running. Man, it’s so pretty out there.”
“Get in as soon as you can. If you need transpo, I’ve got an all-terrain.”
“I’ll check with Transport before we leave, make sure the trains are running. If not, I’ll tag you. Only official and emergency vehicles allowed on the streets until oh-nine-hundred, so no cabs or buses.”
“Yeah, and that’s what I call pretty.”
Eve clicked off and made her way downtown, easily breezing through blinking lights and empty intersections. Maybe, possibly … probably, she’d get bored with this kind of quiet, but for one morning’s commute, she’d take it. Halfway downtown, she realized not a single ad blimp had drifted across the sky to blast its hyperactive news about sales on something, somewhere.
She’d definitely take it.
She noted when she reached the garage that her level held only a scatter of vehicles. And the elevator carried no more than a handful of cops, several with snow melting off their boots, all the way to Homicide.
Maybe it was just a little spooky.
When she walked into her bullpen, she saw Baxter at his desk—kicked back in his chair, feet up, eyes closed. He wore one of his slick suits with an unknotted tie draped around his neck. She walked over, punched him in the shoulder.
He shot straight up, one hand slapping his weapon.
“Nap on your own time.”
“Jesus. What time is it?” He looked blearily around the empty bullpen. “Where is everybody?”
“They’d better be en route.”
“Right. Right.” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “Trueheart and I caught one last night. Couple of guys decided it would be lots of fun to have lots and lots of drinks, smoke lots of illegals, and blast music loud enough people in apartments two floors down were complaining. Across-the-hall neighbor, who’d also done some copious drinking, decided, after several attempts to get them to knock it off, to bust in there and smash their player with a baseball bat. This action was cheered by many other occupants of the building, condemned by others.
“Violence ensued. Numerous injuries and one fatality.”
“Snow makes some people crazier than they already are.”
“Tell me. By the time we wrapped it up, it was too late and too bad out there to go home. We bunked in the crib. Might as well sidewalk sleep,” he complained, trying to work kinks out of his neck and shoulders. “My boy’s in the shower.”
“But you wrapped it up?”
“Yeah, wrapped and packed. Report’s in your box.”
“Okay then. I’m pulling in you and Trueheart to conduct interviews.”
Baxter’s sleepy eyes cleared with interest. “The Strazza murder? The serial rapist Nikki’s working?”
She glanced over as Trueheart came out of the locker room, his hair still showing damp from his shower, his young, earnest face all but dewy.
“Loo’s drafted us, pal. Come on and get briefed.”
“I’ll copy you on the file,” Eve began. “Basically, the suspect targets wealthy married couples, childless, in single-family residences. He possesses the skills to bypass their security, enter the residences. In the first two incidents, he laid in wait until the couple came home. In this last, he entered the premises during a dinner party, walked right by outside contractors and up the main stairs. He disables the male, restrains him.”
She punched her way through the details, the connections, the theories.
“Using the guest list from this charity event all known victims attended, we’ve extrapolated most likely future targets. It’s probable he’s attended other events and functions, earmarked targets there, but it’s a decent bet there’ll be some cross. I’m going to give you five. Arrange face-to-faces, walk them through what they need to know, find out if they use the caterer, the rental place, know or socialize with any of the other vics. You know the drill.”