Delusion in Death

15

Eve worked the board, running through data, connections, time lines as she added them.

Callaway to Hubbard to MacMillon to Menzini. How many turns, decisions, mistakes made in that chain? she wondered. All of them leading to this.

And how long had Callaway simmered, stewed, planned? How long had some suit whose purpose was to sell products—half of which people didn’t need in the first place—dreamed of murder?

And how long had he known murder was his legacy?

She thought of her recent dreams. Murder and misery could have been her legacy, if she’d reached for it, if she’d opened that door instead of another.

So now she stood here, studying murder—the victims, the killer, the whys, the hows. Another path, another choice, she might have been up on a board like this, with someone else doing the studying, the wondering.

Mira was right, she determined, in reality and dreams. It always came down to choices.

She heard Peabody’s clumping footsteps, then caught the scent of coffee.

“Long night,” Peabody said. “I worked with McNab, and we’ve got everything there is to know on Macie Snyder and Jeni Curve, plus we have deep data on five of the abductees who settled in New York.”

She paused, scanned the new data on the board. “Wow. Long night for you, too.”

“Did you read the data I sent you on Guiseppi Menzini?”

“Twice. Bad guy, chemist, religious crazy—and the primary suspect in two attacks, using the agent we’ve identified was used in our attacks. Captured and erased.”

“Callaway’s linked to Menzini through his mother, an abductee.”

“Callaway.” Peabody’s eyes narrowed on the board. “I took him for a lightweight. I don’t remember any Audrey Hubbard on the list.”

“Because there wasn’t. She was born Karleen MacMillon to Gina MacMillon—Tessa Hubbard’s half-sister—and an unknown father. The MacMillons were reported killed during the home invasion. Hubbard recovered the kid, changed her name, got a fresh birth certificate, and moved with her husband to New York.”

Eve grabbed the coffee. “There’s more. I want the images programmed as I’ve outlined while I fill you in.”

She ran it through while Peabody set up the programming.

“I’ve got two men on him. Roarke dug into the mother—Gina MacMillon. There’s more there, but we’ll pass that to Feeney.”

“With all the angles, all the data to sort through, I never thought we’d zero in this fast.” As Eve had, Peabody turned to the victim board. “I went to bed last night thinking we’d have to go into another scene like the bar and the café. I didn’t get a lot of sleep thinking it.”

“We won’t give him a chance to add to this board.”

“I’ll sleep a hell of a lot better tonight then. Are we picking Callaway up this morning?”

“I want to see what he does this morning, where he goes. But yeah, we’ll be talking to him. I want to interview the Hubbards, and I’m damned if I’m going to Arkansas. I figure Teasdale has the pull to bring them here. Maybe enough pull to get a warrant to search their place while they’re out of it.”

“Do you think there’s something there, something with his parents? Jesus, Dallas, do you think they know?”

“I think there’s something there.” Eve stepped back from the board, drinking coffee as she scanned. “I can’t say what they know, but there’s a direct link from Red Horse, Menzini to Lewis Callaway. It’s biological, and there’s nothing here that comes close to proving he knew his own biology, or cared, or has any information on the substance used.”

“Maybe not, but we’ve got a lot of key pieces.”

“Now we need the whole picture. We need that to show means. There’s no clear motive. Was there a specific target—Cattery, Fisher—or were the attacks broad based? If target specific, why Cattery and Fisher? We’ve got opportunity. He was in the bar, and he lives and works within spitting distance of the café, and has admitted to frequenting same.”

She sat on the edge of the conference table, scanning, scanning. “We need more. We need to prove he had knowledge, had access to the formula. We need motive, specific or broad based. To sew him up tight, we need it all.”

“You’ve got enough to sweat him,” Peabody pointed out.

“Yeah, I can sweat him, and I will. I’d like more in my pocket before I do.”

She went back to her notes as cops trickled into the room. Then her head came up. She scented baked goods seconds before the wolf pack circled Feeney.

“Listen, the wife made this coffee cake thing from her cooking class deal. It’s probably not half bad.”

As if it mattered, Eve thought. She let them have the next couple minutes to tear in, devour while she finished off her coffee.

“Fall in,” she ordered. “And wipe the crumbs off your faces, for Christ’s sake. In case any of you have maintained some minor interest in the current investigation, we’ve connected Callaway to Red Horse.”

That shut them up. Attention zeroed in on the boards as cops grabbed chairs.

She waited one more beat, nodded to Peabody. “Gina MacMillon,” she began as the image came on screen. “This is Lewis Callaway’s biological grandmother. She is twenty-three in this ID, issued before, according to statements and documents, she abandoned her husband and joined an unnamed cult. During her association with the cult, she gave birth to a female. The certificate of birth lists her husband as father, and was issued when the infant was six months old. The infant was named Karleen MacMillon, listed as an abductee at the age of eighteen months, and never recovered. However—”

The next image slid on.

“This is Karleen MacMillon’s computer-aged image at the age of twenty-one. And this is Audrey Hubbard Callaway’s ID photo at the same age. Audrey Hubbard’s certificate of birth is fake, and issued to Gina MacMillon’s half-sister Tessa and her husband, Edward, who left England when the child was approximately four years of age, and settled in Johnstown, Ohio. Audrey Hubbard married Russell Callaway, and subsequently gave birth to a son, Lewis.”

“The dots connect,” Baxter commented.

“Yeah, they do. William MacMillon’s petition for divorce, and his deposition, cite abandonment, a cult, and specifically names Menzini. Unless MacMillon was lying, the date of the deposition and the date listed as the kid’s birth make it impossible for him to be the biological father.”

“He took her back,” Baxter said, “and took the kid as his? What is he, an apostle or something?”

“Find out. You and Trueheart find out everything you can, find me somebody who knew him, knew them. He’s listed as killed, along with Gina, in the raid that took the kid. I want the dirt on the marriage—people always know the dirt, and they remember it.”

“Reineke, Jenkinson, I want the same on the Hubbards. Why did they change the kid’s name, fake a birth certificate, move to another country?”

“Could be the sperm donor was trouble,” Reineke speculated. “They wanted to keep the kid from him. Or hell, they just wanted a fresh start.”

“I like the first, that’s my push on it. They could’ve legally adopted the kid, or applied for guardianship. I can’t find anything that says they went that route. Why not? Hubbard was military, retired a captain. She was the kid’s closest blood relation, except for the grandparents. Her father, Gina’s mother. The grandmother’s still alive, in England. Get me the story.”

“I think Detective Callendar and I might have something.” Teasdale glanced toward Callendar, got the nod. “We have considerable data on Red Horse, though much of it is anecdotal, speculative or unsubstantiated. We focused most directly, for obvious reasons, on Menzini once you passed his name to us, and were able to find a few reports, and images—all dating prior to his apprehension.”

“I’ve got the data, if I can use the auxiliary,” Callendar said.

“Go ahead. While she’s setting that up, further search showed Callaway’s habit of visiting his parents—now in Arkansas, an average of once a year, until a few months ago. He’s traveled there several times this year. And in reading the employee reviews, we found Cattery received a much larger bonus than Callaway on a recent project—initiated by Callaway, completed by Cattery. Cattery was also in line for a promotion. Money and position may be motive.”

“I’ve got it, Lieutenant.”

“Run it,” Eve ordered Callendar.

“The images were grainy, indistinct. I cleaned them up, and I can clean them more. This is a photo run on the Daily Mail blog, out of London. It identifies Menzini, preaching to a group after a fire-fight in the East End. The woman to his right is identified only as his companion.”

“Magnify her.” Eve moved closer to the screen. “Dyed her hair red—that fits—and it’s longer—but that’s Gina MacMillon.”

“There’s another.” Callendar switched images. “Leaving some kind of revival. She looks knocked up to me.”

“And right beside Menzini again. Run the image against her ID, make sure we’ve got a match.”

“There are very few photos of him during the Urbans,” Teasdale commented. “It’s interesting that two of the few have this woman at his side.”

“It’s going to be more interesting if he’s the biological father.”

“Yes.” Teasdale smiled serenely. “It will.”

“His DNA is on record somewhere. HSO would have it.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“The birth mother and the half-sister are dead, but there might be DNA records there. And the grandmother’s still alive. I need Menzini’s. Make it happen, Teasdale. And while you’re at it, I want the suspect’s parents brought to New York for questioning.”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

“Arrange it, and asap.” She pulled out her ’link, read the incoming text. “The suspect is leaving his apartment building—dressed for work, carrying a briefcase. He’ll be kept under surveillance. I want to interview the parents before we bring him in.”

“Then I’ll begin arrangements.”

“I want to search their house once they’re en route.”

Teasdale lifted her eyebrows. “As you know, what we have is compelling, but there is no hard evidence, and securing a search warrant on civilians, who even with this compelling data show no association with Red Horse, or any involvement in the murders, may prove difficult.”

“There’s a reason he went back there multiple times in the last few months.”

“Agreed. But the residence in question is one belonging to two, apparently, law-abiding citizens. I’ll do what I can to persuade my superior and the appropriate judge that the warrant is vital to public safety.”

“Fine. Feeney, everything Roarke has on Gina MacMillon’s on disc. He ran out of time.”

“I’ll pick up where he left off, get more.”

“Let’s all get more. I want to know everything there is to know about this cast of characters, including their freaking shoe size, by midday. Move on it.

“Stone, any updates on the illegals?”

“I found a fresh source for Zeus that’s going to make my lieutenant happy, but it doesn’t look like it connects to this. The LSD’s running cold, but I’m still pulling on it. I poked, and can tell you there haven’t been any on-record requisitions from Christopher Lester or his lab for the ingredients necessary to create the agent. Not in the last two years I was able to access.”

“All right, keep pulling.”

“Lieutenant? I think he’s got a legit source. I mean, a lab or chemical distributor. Some way to access the synthetics, the LSD off the street. I think he’s got a connection.”

Strong shifted as Eve waited for her to elaborate. “This guy? He’s not a street guy. He’s a suit. Nothing in his background shows he used, has or had any street connections. Some suit tries to make a buy like he’d have to for this? It should pop out. Going underground, overseas, even off-planet. There’s not even a whiff. There should be.”

“I agree,” Teasdale put in. “Added to it, he has no experience in this kind of chemistry. While he may follow the formula, I believe he’d need someone to show him how to set up, what he’d need, how to handle the elements. This is advanced work, and I don’t think a novice could accomplish it without guidance.”

“So, back to a chemist. Stone, have a talk with Christopher Lester. See if he has any ideas on where Callaway could access the synthetics. What labs in the area—because it’s going to be in New York—routinely handle that sort of thing. There’s a connection. Find it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Russell Callaway’s a medic, now into farming. Maybe he’s got a chemical source, or has some experience there. Farms use chemicals. Callendar, see what you can find out, see if the Callaways bought any strange chemicals in the last few months.”

“On that.”

“Doctor Mira, if I could have a minute. Peabody, take a deeper dig on the Callaways’ financials. See if there’s any indication they’ve gotten any scratch from the grandmother out of England, or made any unusual purchases from a chemical distributor.”

She waited till the room cleared. “There are a lot of ifs,” she told Mira. “I need you to work with them. Let’s start with if Audrey Hubbard knew where she came from, knew her own story and passed that onto her son, does his background data give any indication?”

“It would depend, of course, how the information was related. All indications are Callaway had a reasonably normal childhood, though he would have needed to adjust to several moves during his formative and teenage years. While he was a loner, he was also uprooted several times during those formative years, and this makes it difficult to form lasting relationships. His records show no discipline problems, no juvenile record.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. Normal, normal, but all those relocations. Did they relocate because of the father’s itchy feet, or because there was something hinky with the kid?”

“Hinky?” Mira repeated.

“Yeah, hinky. He’s acting up, or causing some sort of concern, so you pick up and move, start again. The Hubbards did that—only once, but they picked up, moved, started over. Let’s try this.”

She stepped to the board, tapped Callaway’s photo. “He didn’t know, either because his mother didn’t know, or opted not to tell him. He finds out, comes across some sort of information, or somebody slips up and says something that makes him wonder. He goes back, hunts for the information.”

She tapped Audrey Hubbard’s then Menzini’s picture in turn.

“What’s a loner by nature, with no solid or lasting relationships, who feels he’s stuck on the promotion ladder because other people are getting the breaks going to do about that?”

“You think he found out Menzini was his grandfather, and this was his trigger, or his excuse, to kill.”

“His trigger or excuse to use his grandfather’s method to make a statement, to punish, to advance himself, to use others to kill. To be important. And by doing so eliminate two coworkers, both of whom he could consider in his way. A violent nature suppressed for so long, given release. Given, in a way, permission. This is who I am, where I came from. At last I know.”

“He was raised, by all appearances, by two decent people.”

“I don’t know that yet. What I have is an older, potentially dominant father. A mother who lived her life caring for others—her parents, then her child. He’d see that as weak.”

“Do you?”

“I see it as a choice—not one I’d make for damn sure, but a choice. Unless she’s been pushed into it, which I intend to find out. I don’t look at Callaway and see myself, if that’s what you’re worried about. Bad blood? I’ve got it, but it’s not an excuse to live a crappy life. It sure as hell isn’t an excuse to kill. Maybe I’ve got a violent nature, but I channel it. Mostly.” She shrugged. “I need to bring him in before he decides to do it again. I have to keep him in, because if he walks out, he’s going to do it again. He’ll find a way. I have to know him, know where to drill. I need his trigger.”

“Until you’ve talked to the mother—and I’d also like to talk to her at some point—it’s only speculation.”

“I may not have time to pull it out of the mother first, and I’ll take your speculation over most people’s absolutes.”

Mira drew in a breath, looked from Callaway to Audrey Hubbard to Menzini. “Then, he knows. How he found out, I can’t possibly say, but in my opinion, the knowledge didn’t repulse him, didn’t upset or concern. On the contrary, it freed him.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “Okay. I can work with that.”

“He’s nothing like you.”

“Damn right he’s not.”

Mira turned away from the board, focused fully on Eve. “You’ve come to some level of … is it peace?”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve got a mass murderer to take down, and I don’t feel peaceful about it.”

No, she realized, she felt revved. She felt ready. She felt right.

“But I’m good. Quick version—I had a dream, about this, about Stella. You made a cameo appearance. I finished it off punching Stella in the face. That violent nature, I guess. It felt right, just. It felt almost finished. Pretty much done. And I look at him?”

She turned to the board, again to Callaway. “And I see, yeah, I could’ve gone another way. I didn’t. And I like where I am. Most of the time I like who I am. That’s got to be good enough.”

“It’s very good.”

“I punched her in the face,” Eve repeated. “Stella. What do you think about that?”

“I think congratulations are in order.”

The laugh surprised her. “Is that like brava?”

“Yes, in fact, I’ll say that. Brava.”

“Roarke nailed that one,” Eve murmured. “So, anyway, I’m going to put a lid on it by telling Peabody what went down in Dallas. I’ve avoided that, just wasn’t ready to spill it out. It’s not right to hold back from a partner, so I’ll get that over. And it’s done. As done as I can make it.”

“If you need me, I’m here.”

“I know. I wouldn’t have made it through this without you. It’s not easy for me to say that, or to know that. But it’s not as hard as it used to be.”

“That’s also good enough. I’ll leave you to work. When Agent Teasdale arranges for the Callaways to come in, as I have no doubt she will, I’d like to sit in. Or at least observe.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”

She went directly to her office, noted her blinking incoming for data and for messages. She found the bulk of the messages from reporters trying to skip through channels for the story. She forwarded them on to Kyung, with a brief update.

The incoming data reminded her just how many dead lay in Morris’s house, how much of them was even now being dissected, analyzed, studied in the lab.

Though she found nothing new, no game changer, she added the new data on each body processed to her murder book.

She checked on surveillance. Callaway was in his office. Unless he decided to cut loose in his own department, he was as secure as she could make him at the moment.

So she grabbed her coat, walked out to the bullpen.

“I’m not finding anything off on the financials,” Peabody told her. “The Callaways live within their means, have a small, but steady nest egg. No major income or outlay in the last year. And no purchases of weird chemicals. They’re organic farmers.”

“Let that go for now. I want to talk to Cattery’s wife, get a feel. If there’s time, we’ll do the same with Fisher, talk to her roommate.”

“I’m all about it.” Peabody popped right up. “I feel like I’m swimming in the data stream and getting nowhere. Hey, I talked to Mavis,” she added, pulling on her coat as they headed out. “She couldn’t reach you so she tagged me last night.”

“I talked to her this morning.”

“They’ve got Belle swimming.”

“I heard.”

“I talked to my parents, too.” Peabody jumped on the glide behind Eve. “They’re worried, you know, just getting all that bullshit from the media. I told them enough to calm them down some, and to make sure they didn’t decide to rev up the camper and drive to New York. They were out of the Urbans, you know.”

“I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Well, they were young, really just getting started when all that went on. Just a couple of Free-Ager kids doing their commune thing. They made clothes, grew food for people who needed it, but they were never in the hot areas.”

“It’s good they were.”

“My dad said he can’t remember hearing about Red Horse at the time. It was after, like a history book footnote. A lot of people barely heard of them, or not at all. I bet everyone’s heard of them now.”

Eve paused before they transferred to the garage elevator. “That’s a point, isn’t it? It could, maybe should’ve been a major deal, but it not only got crushed, it got buried. Some footnotes for historians and researchers, but no big play. Until now.”

“Do you think that’s what he’s after?”

“I think he’s a selfish, bastard coward, but it’s a factor. His grandfather might have been up there with Hitler given more time, more exposure. The powers that be snatched away his infamy. Recognition’s part of it.”

“Jeez, who’d want to be Hitler’s grandson?”

“People who think white’s right, lunatics, and selfish bastard cowards who want recognition.”

“Yeah, I guess there are those, but …”

“Your Free-Ager’s showing, Peabody. A lot of people are no damn good, and a lot of those people are proud of it.”

She got in the car. Maybe that was an opening, she thought as she programmed Cattery’s address.

“You should know what went down in Dallas.”

“With McQueen?”

“With McQueen’s partner.” She drove out of the garage, concentrated on traffic. It might be easier to lay it out if she had to pay attention to the external. “She was no damn good, and I’d say she was proud of it.”

“She was as fucked up as he is. Maybe more.”

“Yeah.” It tightened her belly to hear it, but she could live with it. That was the key, she reminded herself. Just living with it. “When we were looking for his partner, running the list and images of women who’d visited him in prison, something about her—as Sister Suzan—kept pulling me back. I thought maybe I’d busted her sometime, or interviewed her. Same deal with her other IDs. Just something that tugged, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Curious, Peabody shifted toward Eve. “Had you busted her?”

“No.”

“Maybe you just recognized the type. Instinct kicking in.”

“That’s what I thought, but that wasn’t it. Or not all of it. You read the reports. You know we had her and her place covered. We were right there when she walked out of that townhouse, going to meet up with McQueen. Bad luck. A kid on a bike, a little dog, oncoming car. She made us, took off.”

“I wish I’d been there. I probably wouldn’t have at the time, flying down the streets after her van, crashing. You got banged up.”

“Not bad, it wasn’t bad.” A little bloody, a little bruised, Eve thought. The bad came later.

“She got banged up more—no air bags, safety gel in that clunky van. And she hadn’t taken time to hook her seat belt.”

“Good. She deserved to get banged up.”

“I was so pissed,” Eve continued. “Afraid she’d been able to tag McQueen during the chase, knowing damn well, we’d lost the best chance to find him and get the kid and Melanie back safe. So fucking pissed.”

All that rage, Eve thought, gushing through her like an open wound. And then …

“I yanked her out of the van, got her blood on me. I spun her around. Stupid pink sunglasses, crooked on her face. Pulled them off her … I looked at her face, into her eyes. And I knew her.”

It was Eve’s tone that had a chill working up Peabody’s spine. She spoke carefully. “You didn’t put that in your report.”

“No. It didn’t have anything to do with the case. It’s personal. She went by Stella back then, where I remember her from. She’d changed her eyes, her hair, had some work done, but I knew her. I knew Stella. She was my mother.”

“Jesus.” Peabody laid her hand on Eve’s arm, just a light touch though her fingers wanted to tremble. “You’re sure? I guess I thought she was dead. I mean, had been dead all along.”

“I had the blood. Hers, mine. I had Roarke run DNA to verify, but I knew. I don’t remember much about her, she left me with him when I was about four or five. I’m not sure; it’s vague. But I remember enough.”

“She left you with … did she know?” Even the thought of it had sickness coating Peabody’s throat. “Did she know what he did to you?”

“She had to know. She didn’t care.”

“But …”

“There’s no bittersweet aside here, Peabody. She didn’t care and never had. I was a commodity, and the investment was taking too long, was too much trouble to suit her. That’s what I figure.”

The sickness faded. It its place rose a vicious disgust, icy hot. “Did she recognize you?”

“No. I wasn’t that important. All she saw was the cop who’d fucked up her plans with McQueen, who put her in the hospital, who was going to put her in a cage. I’d’ve put her in a cage. Maybe I should’ve put two men on her.”

“Dallas, I read the reports. You had her restrained, and under guard. There were still cops in the hospital when she escaped.”

“She wouldn’t tell me where McQueen was. I couldn’t flip her, and I went at her hard. Maybe too hard.”

“Stop.” Peabody’s voice roughened and firmed. “You did the job. If you weren’t sure you could do it, you’d have gotten somebody else to sweat her. But you did the job.”

It helped to hear it. She’d gone over every step, every move, every decision countless times, and believed she’d done everything she could. But it helped to hear it. “I was going to go back at her again. I’d bought some time, wanted to let her think about it, then go back at her. But she got out, went to McQueen, and he killed her.”

“And you found her.”

“She was still warm. We hadn’t missed him by much.”

“You got Melinda Jones and Darlie Morgansten out, safe. I can’t imagine what it was like for you.” Peabody took a quiet, unsteady breath. “What it’s been like since. You had Mira,” Peabody remembered. “Thank God you had Roarke and Mira.”

For a long moment, Peabody stared out the side window. “Dallas, you could’ve called me down. You shouldn’t have had to work that alone. I’d’ve had your back.”

“I know it. I had to work it alone. And I’ve had to work through it. You deserve to know, but I had to work through it before I told you.”

“I read her file.” Voice strong and steady again, Peabody shifted back. “I know who she was, what she was. Now I know she left you with an animal. It’s good she’s dead.”

Stunned, Eve turned her head, stared. “That’s not very Free-Ager.”

“Fuck that.” Peabody’s eyes flashed like supernovas. “Fuck tolerance and understanding. Yeah, you’d have put her in a cage for the rest of her pathetic, evil life. But maybe sometime during her rot, she’d have put it together. Maybe she’d have remembered you. She’d have used that on you; she’d have tried. Before you scared the piss out of her, if you could get to her before Roarke. If he could get there before me. And it’s good she was such a selfish, pitiful excuse for a human being so she didn’t remember you, didn’t think about you all those years. She might’ve recognized you, especially after Roarke. She might’ve seen you on screen, and recognized you, caused you more grief and trouble. Dead’s better.”

The rant was so unPeabody, Eve sat in silence. “I’m not sure how to respond,” she decided.

“We should go get a goddamn drink. A whole shitload of god-damn drinks.”

“Jesus, don’t cry.”

“I’ll cry if I fucking want to.” She sniffled, swiped. “Fucking bitch.”

“It’s mean to call me a bitch when I’ve shared personal trauma.”

“I didn’t mean you! I meant your—I meant McQueen’s fucking bitch. I should’ve been there for you.”

And she’d know not to use the M word, not to say mother. That was very Peabody. “Roarke sent for Mira after McQueen killed Stella. And he had Mira bring Galahad.”

Now the tears really rolled—big, fat drops until Peabody had to dig through her pockets to find an old tissue. “I love him.”

“He’s a pretty good cat.”

Wet laughter blew through the tissue. “Sure he is, but you know I meant Roarke. I love him. And if something terrible happened to McNab, I’d fight you for him. And I’ve been practicing.”

“So warned.”

“You’re okay?”

Eve thought it over. “I’m okay. There’s probably going to be some rough spots here and there, but I’m okay. Sperm and egg—that’s what they were. For eight years, between the two of them, they made me a victim. They made me afraid and gave me pain. Now they’re dead. I’m not a victim. I’m not afraid. And pain? Not much. They can’t hurt me anymore, so what I have, it’s just echoes. It’ll pass.”

She pulled up in front of the little house in Brooklyn. “Do something about your face. You’re all splotchy.”

“Crap.” Peabody began lightly slapping her hands over her face.

“What does that do?”

“Makes it all red, distributes the blood. Maybe. It’ll calm down in a few minutes. Just keep Mrs. Cattery focused on you.”

“Christ. Stay behind me.”

Peabody got out, lifted her reddened face. “It’s really windy, and cold. It’ll just look like I’m windburned.” She took a steadying breath. “Did you tell me this when we were in the car and on our way to interview so I couldn’t hug you?”

“It’s a side benefit.”

“I’m going to hug you later. You won’t know when it’s coming.”

“The same goes for my boot up your ass.”

“That’s a given. It’s a daily surprise.”

“Settle down, and let’s do this.”

“It’s a nice house,” Peabody observed as they walked to the door. “Nice neighborhood.”

“He was the only one on the team who did the campaign who didn’t live within blocks of the office.”

“Wife and kids. Fenced yard. Dog.” She nodded toward the back. “See, doghouse.”

“What’s in a doghouse? Mini-screen, AutoChef?”

“Probably a ratty blanket and a collection of soup bones. How’s my face?”

“I’ve seen worse.”

With that ringing endorsement, Peabody angled herself slightly behind her partner as Eve knocked on the door.