Ceremony in Death - J. D. Robb [107]
Roarke lifted a brow, then smiled slowly as he rose. “I’ll have to make it my job to find out.”
chapter eighteen
She had a rosebud on her ass, and wasn’t happy about it. Standing naked in the bathroom, Eve adjusted the trifold mirror until she could get a good look.
“I think I could bust her for this,” she muttered.
“Decorating a cop’s posterior without a license?” Roarke suggested as he strolled in. “Felonious reproduction of floral imagery?”
“You’re getting a big charge out of this, aren’t you?” Miffed, Eve snagged a robe off the hook.
“Darling Eve, I thought I made it perfectly clear last night I was on your side of the issue. Didn’t I do my best to chew it off?”
She would not laugh, she ordered herself as she bit down hard on her tongue. There was nothing funny about it. “I’ve got to get some solution or something. Whatever they make to get it off.”
“What’s your hurry? It’s rather…sweet.”
“What if I have to go in for a disinfect? Or need to shower or change at the station? Do you know what kind of grief a butt tattoo’s going to get me?”
He slid his arms around her, clever enough to get them under rather than over the robe. “You’re not working today.”
“I’m going in. I’ve got to check my unit, see if Feeney shot back some data.”
“And it won’t make any difference if you do it Monday morning. We’ve got the day off.”
“To do what?”
He merely smiled, slid his hands lower to stroke her rosebud.
“Didn’t we just do that?”
“It bears repeating,” he mused, “but it could wait a bit. Why don’t we spend the day lazing around the pool?”
Lazing around the pool? It had a certain appeal. “Well, maybe…”
“In Martinique. Don’t bother to pack,” he told her, planting a quick kiss on her mouth. “You won’t need anything but what you’re wearing.”
She spent the day in Martinique, wearing nothing but a smile and a rosebud. That might have been why she was dragging a bit more than usual on Monday morning.
“You look tired, Lieutenant.” Peabody dug a bag out from her field kit, set two fresh cream donuts on the desk. She was still beaming over the fact that she’d gotten them through the bullpen without the hounds sniffing them out. “And sort of tanned.” She peered closer. “You get a flash?”
“No. Just got some sun yesterday, that’s all.”
“It rained all day.”
“Not where I was,” Eve muttered and filled her mouth with pastry. “I’ve got a probability ratio to run by the commander. Feeney worked some numbers, we’re still pretty light, but I’m going to shoot for round-the-clocks on the top suspects.”
“I don’t suppose you want my probability ratio on your chances of getting it. New interoffice came down this morning about excess overtime.”
“Fuck it. It’s not excess if it’s necessary. Whitney could play it to the chief—and the chief could play it to the mayor. We’ve got two high-profile homicides, generating a lot of media. We need the manpower to close them and turn off the heat.”
Peabody risked a smile. “You rehearsing your pitch.”
“Maybe.” She blew out a breath. “If the numbers were a few points higher, I wouldn’t have to pitch so hard. There are too many people involved; that’s the problem.” Lifting her hands, she pressed her fingers to her eyes. “We’ve got to run the name of every member of both cults. Over two hundred people. Say we eliminate half on data and profile, then we’ve still got a hundred to tag, check alibis.”
“Days of work,” Peabody agreed. “The commander would probably spring for a couple of uniforms to knock on doors, sweep out the obvious noninvolved.”
“I’m not sure there are any obvious noninvolved.” Eve pushed away from her desk. “It took more than one person to transport Lobar’s body, strap him onto that form. And it took a vehicle.”
“None of the primes owns a vehicle large enough to have carried and concealed the body and the pentagram.”
“Maybe one of the membership does. We run names through