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“Stretching.”

“Is it?” She sighed. “If I’d known about that vid they aired this morning, I’d have been tempted to hunt down the operator, the reporter, the producer, whoever I needed to find, and do them some bodily harm. I’d have rather kicked ass than feel humiliated publicly, then have to walk into that bull pen and feel it all over again.”

“Sorry. Um, can I just ask why that Magdelana whore-slut wasn’t in line for bodily harm?”

“I’d have saved her for last.” Eve’s fingers tightened and released on the wheel. “Which means I’d have probably blown my wad before I got to her, and still feel the way I do now. What’s the point?”

“Don’t say that, Dallas. You can’t—”

“It’s going back in the box.” Where it should have stayed, Eve reminded herself. “I only brought it out to illustrate a possibility we have to consider. Straffo’s a lawyer, and to give him his due, he’s a damn good one. He plans, he calculates, he strategizes. And as a defense lawyer he often knows going in that he’s doing all this to set the guilty free.”

“Lack of conscience.”

“We’re cops, we like to think that of defense lawyers. But it’s the job. That’s what it is. It’s their job, and it’s the law. But you have to have some stones to work at getting a killer, a rapist, an illegals dealer a walk—or a deal, for that matter. So he fits the profile, and we take a closer look.”

Just to be certain, Peabody checked her notes. “He wasn’t signed in this morning at the school.”

“No matter how good the security, there’s a way around it.” She’d learned that from Roarke. “And the security at the school is no more than decent. Something else that needs to be checked out more carefully.”

She’d have asked Roarke to help out in that area. That was a habit she’d fallen into, another kind of rhythm, she supposed. But she’d just do it without the aid of her expert consultant, civilian, this time around.

At the school, she uncoded the locks with her master, then stood inside, hands in her pockets, studying the security scanner.

The student or visitor was obliged to use the thumb plate—all prints of authorized students, guardians, staff, and faculty were on file. Guests were required to be cleared before entry. Bags were scanned for weapons and illegals.

In a facility like this, Eve imagined the scans probably worked ninety percent of the time. In the state schools of her education, they hadn’t worked ninety percent of the time.

So money, as money could, brought a certain edge of safety.

At the same time, she imagined the system could be caused to jam or hiccup by a five-year-old with reasonable e-skills.

“Let’s have EDD go over this security. Dig down in it to see if it blipped at any time.”

Her bootsteps echoed as she walked the halls. Empty schools were like haunted houses, she thought. If you listened you could hear the sound of voices, the rush of bodies. Generations of kids, she imagined, trooping along in whatever footwear met the current fashion criteria.

She stopped at the nurse’s station, unlocked the door. Inside was a short counter, a stool behind it, a comp unit. There were four chairs and two cots covered with crisp white linens.

Under the counter were standard first-aid supplies. Packs of Nu Skin, cold packs, heat packs, temperature gauges, a home version of the suture wand the MTs carried. Gauze, swabs.

In a drawer, neatly stowed, were diagnostic aids for checking pulses, pupils, ears, throats. As innocuous as they were, she had to block a shudder.

Medicine in any form wigged her.

All drugs—kid-and adult-dose blockers, nausea remedies, fever reducers, cold tabs—were under lock in a cabinet that required a master like hers or a thumbprint and code.

Nothing inside fit her requirements. Though she did study the individually wrapped pressure syringes.

As far as she could see, Nurse Brennan ran a tight ship. Tight, safe, and secured.

Since the comp was passcoded, Eve tagged it for EDD.

“Kind of creepy in here, isn’t it?” Peabody said from behind her.

“Schools are always creepy. Anything fun