"If there's anything, we'll jiggle it."
She put the next call through to Whitney. "Commander, I've finished at Branson T and T and am en route to his residence."
"Progress?"
"Nothing solid at this point. However, I suggest steps be taken to scan and secure the UN building." She thought of the pretty, pricey souveniers. "Apollo's next hit was the Pentagon. If Cassandra continues to follow the theme, that location is the logical choice. Time-wise there would be a lag of several weeks, but we can't risk them sticking to the schedule set by Apollo."
"Agreed. We'll take all necessary steps."
"Do you think they'll make contact again?" Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.
"I'm not counting on it." She made one last call, to Mira.
"Question," she began as soon as Mira's face came on-screen. "Given the tone of the demands, the fact that those demands have not been met. Adding on that the targets were not destroyed and loss of life was kept minimal, will Cassandra contact me again to play guess what's next?"
"Doubtful. You haven't won the battles, but neither have you lost. Their goals have not been accomplished, while yours have come closer to the mark in each instance. According to your report, which I've just finished reading, you believe they are now aware of your line of investigation. Aware that you know their identities and their pattern."
"And their response to that would be…?"
"Anger, a need to win. A desire to thumb a total victory under your nose. I don't believe they'll feel compelled to issue any sort of warning or jeer the next time. The rules of war, Eve, are, there are no rules."
"Agreed. I have a favor to ask."
Mira tried to hide her surprise. Eve rarely asked for anything. "Of course."
"Zeke's been informed of the setup, Clarissa's part in it."
"I see. This will be difficult for him."
"Yeah, he's not taking it well. I've got him at my place. Mavis is with him, but I think he could use some counseling. If you've got time for a house call."
"I'll make time."
"Thanks."
"Are unnecessary," Mira said. "Good-bye, Eve."
Satisfied, Eve ended the call, and glanced over to see that they'd arrived at the Branson townhouse. Peabody had already parked. "Let's get started." Then she saw that Peabody was clutching the wheel, and tears were swimming in her eyes. "Don't even think about doing that," Eve snapped. "Dry it up."
"I don't know how to thank you. For thinking of him. After he acted that way, with all that's going on, for thinking of him."
"I'm thinking of me." Eve shoved her door open. "I can't afford to have my aide's concentration split because she's worried about a family member."
"Right." Knowing better, Peabody sniffled as she got out of the car. But she'd blinked her eyes clear. "You have my full attention, sir."
"Let's keep it that way." Eve disarmed the police seal and entered the house. "The droids have been deactivated and taken into holding." But she hitched back her jacket so her weapon was in easy reach. "The place should be empty, but we're dealing with people with solid tech and electronic skills. They could have gotten through the seal. I want you on alert while we're in here, Peabody."
"Full alert, sir."
"We'll start with the offices."
Branson's was masculine, distinguished, in burgundy and green with dark wood, leather chairs, heavy crystal. Eve stopped in the doorway, shook her head.
"No, she's the force, she's the one who's driving this train." Her mind was clear again, achingly so. "I shouldn't have wasted time at his plant. She's the button here."
She strode across the hall and into the feminine grace of Clarissa's office. Sitting room, Eve decided it would have been called, with its rose and ivory tones, its dainty chairs with pastel cushions. There were pretty little vases lining the marble mantel, each with tiny flowers tucked in. The flowers were faded and dying and added a sick scent over the fragile fragrance of the air.
There was a day bed with a white swan painted on the cushions, lamps with tinted shades, curtains of lace.
Eve walked to the small desk with long curved legs and studied the small-scale communication and data unit.
The disc collection proved to be filled with fashion and shopping programs, a smatter of novels – heavy on romance – and a daily journal that spoke of household matters, more shopping, lunch dates, and social events.
"Got to be more." Eve stepped back. "Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let's take this creepy little room apart."
"I think it's kind of pretty."
"Anybody who lives with this much pink has to be insane."
They went through drawers, searched under and behind them. The small closet held more office supplies and a filmy robe. Again pink.
They found nothing behind the watercolor paintings of formal gardens, not even dust.
Then Peabody struck gold. "A disc." Triumphant, she held it up. "It was in this swan cushion."
"Let's run it." Eve slipped it into the slot, then looked less than pleased when it immediately engaged. "She hides it, but doesn't bother to passcode it. Oh, I don't think so."
It was a diary, written in the first person, and detailing beatings, rapes, abuse.
"I heard him come in. I thought – he'll think I'm asleep, he'll leave me alone. I've been so careful to do everything right today. But when I heard him coming up the stairs, I knew he was drunk. Then I could smell it as he came to the bed.
"It's worse when he's drunk, when he's just drunk enough.
"I kept my eyes closed. I think I stopped breathing. I prayed he was too drunk to hurt me. But no one listens when you pray."
"Playing possum, little girl." The words, the voice, the memory snapped out at Eve like fangs. The smell of liquor and candy, the hands pulling, bruising.
"I begged him to stop, but it was already too late. His hands were on my throat, squeezing so I wouldn't scream, and he was pushing himself into me, hurting me, his breath hot on my face."
"Don't. Please, don't." It hadn't done Eve any good to beg. Hands on her throat, yes. Squeezing until red dots danced in front of her eyes, and the burning, tearing pain of another rape. With that sick-sweet breath on her face.
"Lieutenant. Dallas." Peabody took her arm and shook. "You okay? You're really pale."
"I'm all right." Damn it, goddamn it. She needed air. "It's a plant," she managed. "She knew someone would find it during the investigation. Scan through to the end, Peabody. She wants us to finish it."
Eve walked to the window, unlocked it, threw it open. She leaned out, had to lean out and breathe. The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits of ice.
She wouldn't go back there, she promised herself. Couldn't afford to go back there. She would stay in the now. In control.
"She talks about Zeke," Peabody called out. "It goes on – pretty flowery love language here – about meeting him, how she felt when she knew he was coming."
She looked over, relieved to see color in Eve's face again, though she suspected it was mostly from the slap of cold wind. "She talks about going down to the workshop; it runs with what they'd told us before. Then she's saying that she found her strength because of him, and was leaving her husband at last. It stops with her writing that she was packed and about to call Zeke and begin her real life."
"She covered her ass. If she decided not to run straight off, she'd have the disc, dated and logged, as verification of the story. I guess she figured Testing was too big a risk."
"Doesn't help us any. Everything here's just as you'd expect it to be if her story was on the up."
"But it's not, so there's more. This is a front." Eve closed the window, turned to wander the room. "This is image – what do you call it – veneer. Under this we've got a tough, determined, bloodthirsty woman who wants to be treated like a goddess. With awe and fear. She's not pink." Eve lifted a satin pillow, tossed it. "She's red; rich, powerful red. She's no delicate flower. She's poison – exotic, sensual, but poison. She wouldn't have spent any more time in this room than it would have taken to set it up."