“You’re the superior officer,” Peabody reminded her. “The request should come from you.”
“And my name is kick-her-ass in Requisitions. I put in, they’ll dig up some piece of shit heap with an attitude. They save them for me.”
“That’s a factor. You know, we could bog down the request, and keep using one of Roarke’s. I mean, he’s got plenty of vehicles.”
“We’re cops. We use a cop car.”
“Spoilsport,” Peabody grumbled when Eve hiked away.
She took a cab to Mira’s residence because her body was one massive ache, and the idea of the subway with its crowds and smells seemed like more punishment than she deserved.
Mira answered the door herself, and had already changed out of her work gear into rust-colored pants and a roomy white shirt.
“Thanks for making the time.”
“It’s absolutely no problem. Look at you,” Mira said with concern as she lifted a hand to Eve’s face. “The incident’s all over the news. With speculation it was a botched terrorist attack on Central.”
“It goes back to Bissel, and it’s a lot more personal. I’ll explain.”
“You should sit down, and we’ll…” She turned, beamed as her husband came toward her with a loaded tray. “Dennis, you remembered.”
“Eve likes coffee.” He winked at Eve with his dreamy eyes. He was wearing a baggy cardigan with a hole in the sleeve and worn brown trousers. He smelled, Eve thought, a little like cherries.
His expression sobered as he scanned the bruises. “Was there an accident?”
“It was pretty much deliberate. It’s nice to see you, Mr. Mira.”
“Charlie, you should take care of this girl.”
“Yes, I will. Why don’t we go upstairs, and I’ll take a look at you?”
“Thanks, but I really don’t have time-”
Dennis was already starting up with the tray. “We can discuss the case while I treat you,” Mira said, and took a firm hold of Eve’s arm. “Otherwise, I’ll be distracted.”
“It looks worse than it is,” Eve began.
“Yes, so they always say.”
There was a lot of color. It was one of the things Eve always noted about Mira’s home. All the color and pretty little whatnots sitting around. Flowers and photographs.
Mira took her into a cozy sitting room done in quiet blues and misty greens. Over a small fireplace was a family portrait of the Miras, their children and spouses, their grandchildren. It wasn’t a formal pose, but a casual kind of grouping, as if a conversation was taking place.
“Nice,” Eve said.
“Yes, isn’t it? My daughter had it done from a photograph and gave it to me last Christmas. The children have already grown so much since. Well. I just need to get a few things. Dennis, entertain Eve for a moment.”
“Hmm?” He’d set down the tray and looked around absently.
“Keep Eve company.”
“Your husband’s not coming?” Dennis poured the coffee. “Nice boy.”
“No, he’s… this is really a professional visit. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”
“Pretty girl’s never an interruption.” He patted his pockets, looked around blankly. “I seem to have misplaced the sugar.”
There was something about him-the mop of hair, the baggy sweater, the bemused expression-that stirred a little glow of affection inside her. “I don’t use any.”
“Good thing. Don’t know where the hell I left it. Remembered the cookies, though.” He picked one up, handed it to her. “Look like you could use one, sweetie.”
“Yeah.” She stared at it and wondered why it, the gesture, the room, the scent of the flowers on the mantel combined to make her eyes sting. “Thanks.”
“It’s rarely as bad as we think it is.” He patted her shoulder and had her throat going hot. “Unless it’s worse. Charlie’ll fix you up. I’m going to take my coffee out on the patio,” he said when Mira came back. “Let you girls gab.”
Eve bit into the cookie, swallowed hard. “I’ve got a crush on him,” she said when she and Mira were alone.
“So do I. You’ll need to take off your clothes.”
“Why?”
“I can tell by the way you move you’ve got injuries, and pain. Let’s deal with it.”
“I don’t want-”
“And you can take your mind off what I’m doing by telling me about Bissel.”
Accepting that an argument would only drag things out, Eve stripped off the shirt, then the trousers. Mira’s quick wince of sympathy had Eve hunching in defense.
“Mostly from the safeties. You know, the harness, impact bags.”
“And would have been considerably worse without them, yes. You were treated on scene?”
“Yeah.” Eve felt her insides draw up as Mira opened a medical bag. “Look, they did all the stuff. And I took a blocker, so-”
“When?”
“When what?”
“When did you take something for pain?”
“Before… a while ago. A few hours,” she mumbled when leveled by Mira’s patient gaze. “I don’t like meds.”
“All right, let’s see what we can do without them. I’m going to put the chair back. Relax. Close your eyes. Trust me.”
“That’s what they all say.”
“Tell me what you’ve learned about Bissel.”
It wasn’t so bad, Eve thought. Whatever Mira was doing didn’t add to the pain, or layer on any stings or twinges. Best, it didn’t make her feel lightheaded and stupid.
She ran through the progress of the case, and didn’t pause when Mira began to work on her face.
“So he’s alone now,” Mira said. “Angry, displaced, and probably feeling very, very sorry for himself. A dangerous mix with a man of his emotional content. His ego has been severely attacked. He should be patting himself on the back now, lavishly. Instead things continue to go wrong-through no fault, in his mind, of his own. He has a very vaulted opinion of himself, so someone else must be to blame. He sacrificed his wife, his brother, both his lovers without a qualm. He has no capability for real emotion, real attachments.”
“Sociopathic?”
“Of a kind, yes. But it’s not simply that he has no conscience. It’s that he sees himself as above the behaviors, needs, attachments, rules of general society. An artist on one hand, a spy on the other. He’s wallowed in the thrill of these parts of himself, preened on the pleasure of his own cleverness. He’s spoiled, and wants more. More money, more women, more adulation. He would have enjoyed the risk of killing. The planning stages, the idea of playing both ends for his own means.”
“Sparrow did the planning.”
“Yes, our organized thinker, but Bissel wouldn’t see it that way. He was the field operative, thinking on his feet and getting the job done. Adding his flourishes. In his capacity for the HSO, he was, basically, a delivery boy. This has given him the opportunity to show them, show everyone, how much more he is.”
“But if it had worked, no one would know.”
“He would know. He’d have fooled everyone, and he would know. Eventually, he’d have been compelled to share this with someone, to brag. He’d had Kade, his associates within the HSO, he’d had Sparrow. He could show his true face to these people. With them gone, he’d have to seek other outlets. Self-satisfaction wouldn’t hold him long.”
Gently, she brushed Eve’s hair back and treated the laceration on her temple. “Sparrow’s mistake was in not factoring in how much Bissel would enjoy the limelight, the thrill of killing and being a critical part of the plan.”
“Now that it’s all gone to hell?”
“Bissel will only have more to prove. He may go to ground, but he won’t stay there. In the past, his art fed that part of his ego that needed public acknowledgment, praise, admiration. That spotlight’s been taken, too. He needs a show. A platform.”
“If I make it public that he’s still alive, that he’s… the star, that would give him the show. He’d need to come out, wouldn’t he? Take a bow.”