She pulled into the garage, and her slot.
She managed three floors in the elevator in peace before it opened.
Two uniforms escorted a woman in who looked more impatient than worried.
“You’re a woman.”
Eve gave her a wary look. “I am.”
“Wearing a ring, so you married?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, lemme ask you. You’re married to a guy for seventeen years, shove a couple kids out of your body along the way. Work your ass off for a couple other men while you’re dealing with kids, now teenage kids who’ll bring their own kind of hell, and on one more morning when you’re shoving teenagers out the damn door for school, trying to get yourself cleaned up to go work, the man you married says: ‘Damn it, Cath, where’s my breakfast?’ What do you do?”
“It’s difficult to say, as I’ve never been in that specific situation.”
“I’ll tell you what you’d do, you’d do just like I did. I said: ‘Here’s your breakfast, Charlie,’ and gave him a good smack with a frypan.
“Then what happens?”
Cath shifted with the uniforms to let more cops on, and maneuvered Eve into the corner.
“I’ll tell you what happens. He’s yelling I tried to kill him. If I wanted to kill him, I’d’ve kept smacking that pan over his stupid head instead of giving him one little tap. And he’s carrying on like I stabbed him, not even bleeding, but carrying on like I stabbed him in the guts. Got the lump he deserved is all. And one of the nosy neighbors calls the cops on me! Now I’m arrested and late for work. Where’s the justice?”
“Ma’am.” One of the uniforms rolled his eyes at Eve. “We have to get off here.”
“Breakfast, my ass,” she said as they escorted her off. “You’d do the same!” she shouted back at Eve.
Eve thought, no. Why would she use a frypan when she had a perfectly good fist?
She got off at Homicide and walked into the bullpen.
And, Peabody excluded, a full complement of detectives.
“Has murder taken a day off?”
Baxter, feet on his desk, gestured at the board. “Closed.”
Carmichael gestured with her coffee. “Closed.”
Jenkinson jerked a thumb. “And closed.”
Today’s tie, God help her, featured the Empire State Building with the backdrop of a virulent red-and-gold sunrise. And King Kong, eyes laser red, beating his massive chest at the top.
“Before you say anything,” Jenkinson began, “the squad unanimously approves this one.”
“It’s iconic,” Santiago said.
“So’s your hat.”
Eve turned and went to her office.
She grabbed coffee, then updated her board. Then sat, updated her book.
When she brought up Harvo’s list of possible venues for the costumes, she blew out a breath.
More than she’d figured, but Harvo had gone global. And that was the right call.
