SHE SPENT HOURS PORING OVER THE THEATER’S blueprints, plugging holes where she found them, checking and rechecking possible routes, possible points of entry.
If he came in, he wouldn’t get out again.
And if he didn’t come in, she’d issued BOLOs and APBs, she’d sent his sketch, his ID, a written physical description to every transportation center, public and private, in the city. Despite the fact he didn’t hold a valid driver’s license, she did her best to cover vehicle rental agencies.
He could buy a vehicle, she considered. He could just take one of Alexander’s company cars. But short of putting up roadblocks on every bridge and tunnel, she couldn’t shut down New York in her pursuit of one man.
She weighed her options heavily on her own instincts and Mira’s profile.
He’d come for her.
She looked forward to it. The idea of the confrontation, of taking down a killer took her mind off—mostly—a Trina session.
She told herself that personal torture was hours off, then spent so much time on ’link conferences, coordinating theater and NYPSD security, taking updates from her commander, she lost track.
When Peabody came into her home office, Eve didn’t give it a thought. She’d asked her partner to come early to be briefed.
“Sorry I’m late.”
Eve’s head jerked up. “Late?” And her gaze shifted to the time. “You’re late. Why are you late?”
“Traffic’s insane. We figured since we had our fancy clothes to bring we’d take a cab instead of the subway. We hit jam after jam. We’ve still got time before Trina gets here to set up, and I’ve been monitoring all the memos going back and forth between you and the commander, you and the security head at the theater. You and everybody else. You’ve been at this all day.”
“We’ve got civilians to think of, plus the freaking media. We have to be prepared to take him down when he comes because we don’t want the civilians and media treated to a couple of dead or injured cops and the panic resulting therefrom.”
“I vote against that.”
“We also don’t want civilians hurt, our suspect to escape, or the media blasting NYPSD screwups.”
“Also vote nay.”
“So the best possible outcome is we spot him, then take him down quick and quiet.” Eve circled her neck, stiff from hours of work. “Which is very unlikely.”
“Why? You’ve covered and recovered, you’ve got Plans A through Z. We’re prepared.”
“And he’s big, he’s fast, and not above hurling a toddler.”
“I don’t think there’ll be any toddlers at the premiere.”
“He can bench-press three hundred,” Eve reminded her. “He could hurl both of us and barely break stride.”
“Listen, Dallas, if you think it’s going to go south, maybe we should cancel. Just not be there.”
“I didn’t say it’s going to go south. We’ll get him, but I’m not counting on the quick and quiet part. I’m holding for no civilian injuries and no panicked stampede.”
“We can do this.”
“We will do this,” Eve corrected. “He’s used to a chain of command. Army, paramilitary, organized sports. Probability is he’ll go for me first. But that doesn’t mean he won’t take a run at you if he sees an opening. Where’s your weapon?”
“With my stuff. We put everything in the guest room Summerset gave us. I was going to carry it in my clutch. I got a really nice bag with this fake ruby clasp on sale at—”
“Peabody.”
“It looks good with the dress,” Peabody said stubbornly, “and it’s just big enough. But then I had a brainstorm.”
“What kind of brainstorm?”
“Well, see, the dress has a kind of draping skirt, so I opened a side seam, and put in a kind of slit.” She demonstrated with her hand low on her hip. “And I made a thigh holster.”
“You made a holster?”
“It’s sort of like a reinforced garter, but not very pretty. I didn’t have time for pretty. I just made it last night with what I had on hand. But it’ll secure my weapon so I just have to slide my hand in the slit to get to it.”
“You made a holster,” Eve repeated, both puzzled and impressed. “The making stuff, that’s Free-Ager roots. The holster? That’s sort of anti-Free-Ager, but crafty cop.”
“Crafty Cop.” Peabody’s eyes lit in appreciation. “I could make a whole line of them under that name, start up a police officer supply cottage industry. I saw the sketch of your dress. Where’s your weapon?”
“Thigh holster, suited for my clutch piece. I didn’t make it,” she added. “I could use a damn slit.”