With that earwormed in her head, she aimed for the lab.
Through the glass walls, she spotted Feeney, his dirt-brown suit a calm contrast to the three with him.
McNab in a multicolored polka-dot shirt tucked into explosive red baggies, which only confirmed her red’s-flashy stance. He wore the tartan airboots she and Roarke had given him for Christmas the year before.
Callendar, her hair sporting a purple haze over black, ticktocked her hips in baggies striped in red, green, yellow—all three in what Eve considered the screaming range of their particular hue. She paired it with a white shirt that had a cartoon boomer with a lit fuse centered. Beneath, it warned:ANY MINUTE NOW!
Down the long counter stood Detective Zela Willowby. Though assigned to Special Victims, she knew the dark reaches of the underground, and usually hunted them for those others bought and sold like candy.
Small, compact, she looked about sixteen, with her golden brown skin, amber eyes, sharp features. She added to that impression with platform combat boots, purple baggies that matched the heavy fringe on her otherwise black wedge of hair, and a black shirt covered with neon stars.
When she stepped in, music blasted Eve’s ears.
“Jesus, how do you think with the noise?”
Feeney turned. With the weekend’s work, the bags under his eyes looked like they’d hold a week’s wardrobe. His hair stood up and out like a man’s who’d barely survived an electric shock.
“Cut the music.” In the blessed quiet, he shrugged. “Tedious work, kid. Gotta keep revved.”
“The cap goes for the classical.” Willowby blew a bright pink bubble with her gum, snapped it. “Seriously iced playlist.”
“Got the Stones, the Boss, Fab Four, a little Heart, Bon Jovi, Gaga. Mixed in Avenue A, Mavis for more contemp.”
“Keeps us juiced.” Callendar sucked up some of her fizzy through a straw.
“You just missed Abernathy,” Feeney told her.
“Aw, that’s a shame.”
He grinned at that. “He’ll be back. We’re running pretty smooth with Interpol.”
“He’s a neck-breather.” McNab rolled his shoulders. “You know, breathes down your neck.”
“I got it. What have you got for me?”
“Take it, Willowby.”
She gave Feeney a quick salute. “Lots of chatter how something big’s coming. Most of that’s on dark sites where whatever it is, they can’t afford it. Cough up a few hundred thou for a slave, maybe up to a mil or two for a solid sex trade or something nice and shiny, but not the big guns.”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-uh.” She picked up her own drink, gestured with it, gulped some down. “We’re starting to see more teasers. You know, like you see at the vids? Previews of coming attractions, and just on the major money sites. Like sheikhs and shit. The mega-extreme rich. They’re setting the opening bid at three hundred mil, invite only. And there’s nothing we’ve scratched up yet that says what’s going up for bid.”
“Can you trace any of it back?”
“Catch,” Willowby said, and mimed tossing a ball to McNab.
“We’re working on it, but it’s slow going. The tedious deal? They bounce, add twisties, redirect, lights out. We got an off-planet ping, but that tapped out.”
Eve held up a hand. “Don’t talk geek to me.”
Callendar picked it up. “Easiest to say they’d know we’d be looking, so they’ve set up a really slick system for, like, obfuscating. They didn’t set this up yesterday, you get me? Took a lot of time and skill. They’ve got money and e-talent plenty for this.”
“We’ll dig them up,” Willowby said. “It’s going to take time, but we’ll get them.”
Eve looked at Feeney. “Would you bid three hundred mil on something you saw on the web? Something you didn’t see in person, your own eyes, with your own expert authenticating?”
He grinned at her. “Well, hell no, even if I had Roarke’s money. And so say we all.”
