J. Robb - Survivor in Death

“Humanity.”

“Besides. I spend most of my time with faces. What you don't see, Dallas, are lines or scars, bumps, flaws. You said they'd had strong physical training, most probably military. Seen action. But you don't see action on their faces. You don't see wear. She'd have given it to me,” he said almost to himself. “Ophelia would, because you nudge them along there instinctively. You want identifying marks when you can get them. But other than the one favoring his leg, they were perfect.”

“I considered droids, but the probability's low. Two of that caliber would cost, and it's difficult to program one for wet work, for covert and assassinations. That's why the military doesn't use them for intricate work.”

“I'm not thinking droids. I'm thinking sculpting, surgery. They could look so much alike, so unmarked and identical, if they paid for it.”

“Shit. Shit, The height, the weight of the first one runs with Kirkendall's data. The coloring's close.”

“The face isn't,” Yancy continued. “But if he had it built up here…” He pulled out a copy of Kirkendall's ID photo and began to change it. “Widen, square off the jaw, plane down the nose. Build up the lower lip. It would take a top guy, mucho dinero, but you could do it. I know the eyes don't match, but-”

“They were wearing shades, you were going with probables.”

“You can have the shape changed, too, and the color.”

“I got a friend changes her eye color as often as she does her underwear.” She paced away, paced back. “It makes more sense to me. Why go through all the years of planning, the perfecting, the anticipation, then not be in on the kill?”

“If we're right, who's the other one?”

Eve studied the twin images. “Good question.”

LEAVES, GOING CRISP, SKITTERED ACROSS THE sweep of the drive as Eve drove through the gates.

New sets of possibilities, probabilities, and the action required for both circled in her mind.

“Wind's coming up,”Peabody observed. “Rain's coming in.”

“Thank you for the forecast.”

“It's going to strip the trees. I always hate to see that happen. Then they're all naked out there, at least until we get the first snow.”

“You're that worried, maybe you and some of your Free-Ager relations can knit them some sweaters.”

“I'm better at weaving.”Peabody 's voice remained placid while Eve parked in front of the house. “Haven't hit the loom in a good long while, but I bet I could pick it up again. I should think about that, with Christmas right around the corner.”

“Oh, stop. It's fricking October.”

“Nearly November. I'm not going to let it get away from me this year. I've already started picking up gifts. Easier to afford it now because-hey, I made detective.”

“The fact of which you never forget to remind me, and anyone else within hearing.”

“I added time in due to being injured in the line. Still, I've cut it back to once or twice a week.” She climbed out, drew in a deep breath. “Don't you love the way it smells?”

“What smells?”

“The air, Dallas. The it's-almost-November-and-the-rain's-rollingin-on-the-city air. All brisk and damp. And you got those mums and asters going over there-just a little spicy. Makes me want to rake up a big pile of leaves and jump in them.”

That put a hitch in Eve's stride, enough for her to stop and stare. “Christ” was all she could think of, and she strode to the door and in.

Summerset was there, the specter of the foyer, with his stark black suit and thin, disapproving face.

“I see you've decided to make an appearance.”

“Yeah. And for my next act I'll boot your ugly ass out of my way.”

“You brought a child into this home, who needs and expects some of your time and attention.”

“I brought a witness, minor, into this home, who needs and expects me to find out who killed her family. If you can't deal with her while I'm doing that, I'll bring in a child care droid to handle it.”

“Is that all she is to you?” His voice was a blade, edgy and slicing. “Witness, minor. A droid has more feeling. She's a child, one who isn't through her first decade and who has endured unspeakable horror and suffered unspeakable loss. And you have to be manipulated into spending a few spare moments with her over the morning meal.”

“I know just what she's endured and suffered.” She matched him tone for tone, even as her fingers dug hard into the newel post. “I'm the one who walked through the blood they left behind. So don't you get in my face on this. You son of a bitch.” She started up the stairs, stopped, looked down at him. “She's not yours. You better remember that.”

Peabodystayed where she was a moment, breathing in air that was no longer brisk and damp but thick and seething. “You were off.” She said it quietly, drawing Summerset's gaze to her. “I make it a policy to stay out between the two of you. But you were off. Her mind's on that kid, one way or the other, every minute, every day.”

She crossed to the steps, followed Eve up.

Long, angry strides had carried Eve to her office and taken her on one turn around it whenPeabody came in.

“Dallas-”

“Don't talk to me.”

“He was wrong. I'm going to say it.”

“Just don't talk to me for a minute.”

She had to burn it off-the rage, the insult, and the damning suspicion creeping under it that he was right.

She'd taken that step back, the step away necessary to maintain professional objectivity. She wouldn't apologize for it. But she'd taken another step back, a personal one. The one she needed to keep herself from projecting, from seeing too much of herself in the girl she needed to protect. Lost, alone, terrified, damaged.

It was different, different, different, Eve repeated to herself as she paced. As she yanked off her jacket, heaved it toward a chair. But the results, weren't they horribly the same?

They'd toss her into the system, as she'd been tossed. Maybe she'd get lucky. Maybe she wouldn't. And maybe she'd spend the rest of her life reliving what Summerset had called the unspeakable in nightmares.

She stepped to the window and, looking out, didn't see the leaves dancing in that rising wind, or the burnished fall color that was already fading toward November dull. She saw the face of the cop who'd stood over her hospital bed when she'd been eight.

Who hurt you? What's your name? Where's your mom and dad?

Give me the facts, she thought now. Give me some data so I can help you. I'm not going to feel too much, standing here over this broken kid, because I've got to do the job.

She closed her eyes a moment and pulled it back in. So did she have to do the job.

“Start running Kirkendall for known associates, for other family members,” she said without turning. “Do the same on Isenberry. You get any who cross, we push it.”

“Yes, sir. Want coffee?”

“Yeah I want coffee, as I'm still among the living. Thanks.”

She turned just as Roarke came into the room. Something must have shown on her face still, as he stopped, frowned. “What's wrong?”

“A pile of dead bodies at the morgue. Same old same old.”

“Eve.”

“Leave it, would you?”

He started to speak again, she could see the struggle. Then he gave a quick nod. “All right. Where do I sign up for my assignment?”

“Gotcha covered right here. Suspect, Kirkendall, Roger, former army, rank of sergeant. Swisher repped the spouse in a custody suit, won. Presiding judge was hit a couple years back. Vehicular explosion device. GPS rep was strangled in her bed. Expert medical wit stabbed, and it looks like the asshole they pinched for it might have just been wrong place, wrong time.”