She rolled out of bed, fed the cat as she programmed the coffee.
“Tell me about the dream.”
“It was weird. Mixed up. All this digging into the Urbans. That’s where I was, here in New York.”
She brought the coffee back, told him.
“I was so pissed, but not … I don’t know. Upset? I don’t know if that’s the word. But I kept looking at her, listening to her. Bitch, bitch, bitch. Blame, blame, blame. And there’s Mira, so calm. Unshakable, the way she can be. Part of my head’s thinking, look how different they are. Like opposite sides. And Mira had some bad shit in her life, but it didn’t turn her into some monster. I didn’t let Stella turn me. So what has she got? She’s got nothing but what I let her have. I know it. I always did. But …”
“What happened in Dallas was vicious. You had to work through it.”
“I know it took a piece out of you, too. And I know the time since hasn’t been easy for you. It’s going to be better.”
“I can see it.”
“She wasn’t going to walk off with that kid, or hurt her. Then when I saw it was Bella. Jesus. Over my dead body, you worthless cunt.” Eve took a breath. “She wanted me to shoot her. It’s weird, right? Even though it’s my dream, my inner whatever running the show,
“I believe she’d say,
“It’s going to be like it was with Troy, when I worked through that. She may come back, but she can’t hurt me anymore. That’s done.”
He lowered his forehead to hers. “I can’t tell you what it means to me.”
“You don’t have to. There’s probably some crap in here that still needs shoveling, but everybody’s got crap, right? It’s what you do about it. Choices. I’ve got to take a good look at mine, at some point. And now, I’ve got to start looking at choices people made in the Urbans that helped build the maze that led to the choices Callaway’s made.”
“As I said, some dream.”
“You got telepathy, I’ve got dreams. And I’m going to use them to kick some ass.”
She compiled the notes, the data, the images, shuffling them together for the morning briefing. She rose just as Roarke stepped into her office.
“I’ve got to get in, start setting this up.”
“Before you do. Gina MacMillon.” He offered her a disc. “You may want to familiarize yourself on the way in. I’ve copied the files to your office comp.”
“Thanks. Interesting?”
“Very,” he said as she pocketed the disc. “She was married to a William MacMillon, and while he was listed as the father on the birth record—that record wasn’t recorded until the child was more than six months old.”
“That is interesting.”
“Also interesting. William MacMillon had filed for divorce, ultimately citing desertion. He filed eight months before the birth of the child, and the claim on the old documents states she’d abandoned him and the family home six months previously.”
“Fourteen months? If he was telling the truth, it’s either the longest gestation on record, or the kid wasn’t his. I’m going with the second option.”
“Better. I dug up a deposition where MacMillon states his wife had become involved with a religious cult, specifically names Menzini as an influence.”
Eve’s eyes sharpened as she turned to her board. “The wife takes off with Menzini’s group, gets knocked up. Somewhere in there has a change of heart—or re-engages her brain. Goes back to the husband—with a kid. He forgives her, takes responsibility for the kid.”
She paused a moment. “I’ve got some problems with that unless MacMillon is registered as a saint, but the time line reads like that.”
“It does. Love, if love it was, makes saints or sinners out of men.”
“I think mostly people are just born that way. So, the bio father maybe comes for the kid, and Karleen MacMillon’s now listed as an abductee.”
“And both Gina and William listed as dead, killed during the home invasion where the child was taken.”
“And eventually Gina’s half-sister finds the kid, takes her as her own—changing the name. Protect the kid.”
“It reads that way.”
“I’d like some verification instead of speculation, but I can push on it. Maybe there’s family or somebody in the know still alive. I’ll put some work into finding out.”
“I have one more,” Roarke told her. “I had a quick word with Crystal Kelly.”
“Who?”
“CEO of New Harbor, Callaway’s client.”
“Is it business hours?”
“Close enough for those of us trying to wrangle world domination. She’d heard about the incident here, of course, and knew Cattery. She was cooperative, and sounded sincerely fond of Cattery. She was, as he stated, at dinner with Vann when Callaway contacted him to tell him Cattery was dead.”
“Right on the spot. Handy.”
“It was, yes. She says Vann was stunned. Both of them were stunned and upset. They considered postponing the presentation, but then agreed to get it done and over. Joe, as she said, had worked hard on it.”
“And Callaway.”
“She claimed she didn’t know him as well as Vann, Cattery or Weaver. Hadn’t really connected with him, and considered him a more behind-the-scenes type. She didn’t really have any specific impression of him, which made one on me.”
“Yeah, he’s invisible to her—and that would grate.”
“More, Vann specifically—before he knew of the death—credited Cattery with two key points in the campaign, and Weaver for her flexibility. She doesn’t recall him mentioning Callaway except as part of the team.”
“Still doing what he’s told, and no more—sounds like. And pissed off that someone like Cattery, the family man, the soccer coach, the nice guy is passing him by.”
“It’s not much more than you had.”
“Little things, adding up.” To a clearer picture, she thought. “I appreciate it.”
“I’m a bit crowded today, but I can look into it sometime late this afternoon if there’s still a need.”
“I’ll keep that in reserve.” She stepped closer. “But don’t screw with your work and time for this. I’m covered, and you’ve already done more than your part.”
“Over a hundred and twenty people are dead. I’ll make time if I’m needed.”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks for this.” She patted her pocket. “I’ll bone up on the way to Central.”
“It’s a dangerous world out there. Take care of my cop.”
“Don’t worry.”
Wishing he could give her what she asked, he watched her walk out.
With her mind on steps, angles, she hurried downstairs to find Summerset in the foyer. He held out her long leather coat.
“It’s been fitted with the body armor lining, as in your jacket,” he told her.
“Yeah?” Roarke, she thought, never a miss. She took the coat, tested the weight, studied the flexible, protective lining.
He might tell her to take care of his cop, but he often beat her to it.
“A cold front moved in,” Summerset said simply. “We’ve had a hard frost, and there’s a bitter wind this morning.”
“Okay.” She hesitated, knowing very well they were both aware he rarely greeted her in the morning, much less with a weather forecast. “I can’t give you all the details, but we found a link between the suspect and Red Horse. I have to tighten it, but it’s a connection, maybe—probably—an important one.”
