[Team Three] Holiday Cheer
Reading the latest J. D. Robb book inspired me to write some Peabody/Eve banter and general adventures in Homicide. In Death, 620w, T.
"I'll go quadruple check it," Peabody said as she unwound the chunky scarf around her neck. The cold, January wind might be whipping outside, but Eve would still rather freeze than risk the strangulation hazard. Plus, were those multicolored rabbits on her scarf? Go away for two days and come back to discover Jenkinson's tie affliction spreading across half of her bullpen. Jenkinson denied it of course and tried to shift the blame to McNabb and EDD. Eve didn't buy it for a second; she'd never had a problem with EDD's fashion sense infecting her men before.
"And why is it quadruple check anyway?" she wondered out loud. "Why not triple check? Or...whatever five would be?"
"Quintuple," Peabody replied, "and it could've been that. Or triple--it's the sentiment more than the exact number."
"If you have to check five times, you were sloppy the first." She could understand a second check. Maybe you missed an angle the first time, or some new information percolated; hell, it could be as simple as a computer glitch, but more than that and there had better have been a major change. She shook her head. "Go run it. Double check if you have to, but my detectives aren't sloppy, and this asshole doesn't warrant that sort of time."
"I'll send you the report and copy Mira. Oh, and McNabb said EDD's making progress on the electronics from the Fisher case. Apparently your suspect isn't nearly as good as he thinks he is. You should have a full report by the end of shift," Peabody said before she clomped out of the office and down the hall.
Eve chose not to think about any ass-grabbing that may-or-may-not have occurred during said update from McNabb. Instead, she turned her attention back to her board. So far, it was shaping up to be a straightforward case of murdering asshole. Said asshole walked into a craft fair, asked about the price of a wall hanging, took offence at the cost, and decided to solve the problem with a sticker. They had a couple dozen eyewitnesses, security cam footage of the entire incident, and the suspect detained less than a block away still in possession of both bloody sticker and wall hanging.
She wrote up the report, checked in with her detectives--all currently working active cases, put in a solid hour clearing paperwork, and still left right at the end of the shift. If she hurried, she could even squeeze in a quick workout in the gym before whatever gala Roarke had asked her to attend tonight. He'd provided the details, of course, but she'd promptly forgotten them; it had to be some sort of defense mechanism. Who in their right mind would want to spend the night in ankle breaking heels making small talk with every self-important figure in New York? She'd rather face down a serial killer unarmed.
Still, marriage rules were marriage rules, and Roarke did far more than his fair share of keeping up the bargain, so she'd grit her teeth, put in her appearance, and let everyone draw whatever incorrect conclusions they wanted about Roarke's cop. She'd draw the line at Trina though. If Roarke even thought about siccing Trina on her, all bets were off.
She was halfway to the garage when her communicator signaled. "Dispatch. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Double homicide in Central Park, multiple bystander casualties. Report to officers on scene."
She sighed and reversed direction, contacting Peabody and sending an apology to Roarke as she fought her way back up the glides. What was it about the holidays that made so many otherwise normal people commit murder?
You're up, alchemicink!
"I'll go quadruple check it," Peabody said as she unwound the chunky scarf around her neck. The cold, January wind might be whipping outside, but Eve would still rather freeze than risk the strangulation hazard. Plus, were those multicolored rabbits on her scarf? Go away for two days and come back to discover Jenkinson's tie affliction spreading across half of her bullpen. Jenkinson denied it of course and tried to shift the blame to McNabb and EDD. Eve didn't buy it for a second; she'd never had a problem with EDD's fashion sense infecting her men before.
"And why is it quadruple check anyway?" she wondered out loud. "Why not triple check? Or...whatever five would be?"
"Quintuple," Peabody replied, "and it could've been that. Or triple--it's the sentiment more than the exact number."
"If you have to check five times, you were sloppy the first." She could understand a second check. Maybe you missed an angle the first time, or some new information percolated; hell, it could be as simple as a computer glitch, but more than that and there had better have been a major change. She shook her head. "Go run it. Double check if you have to, but my detectives aren't sloppy, and this asshole doesn't warrant that sort of time."
"I'll send you the report and copy Mira. Oh, and McNabb said EDD's making progress on the electronics from the Fisher case. Apparently your suspect isn't nearly as good as he thinks he is. You should have a full report by the end of shift," Peabody said before she clomped out of the office and down the hall.
Eve chose not to think about any ass-grabbing that may-or-may-not have occurred during said update from McNabb. Instead, she turned her attention back to her board. So far, it was shaping up to be a straightforward case of murdering asshole. Said asshole walked into a craft fair, asked about the price of a wall hanging, took offence at the cost, and decided to solve the problem with a sticker. They had a couple dozen eyewitnesses, security cam footage of the entire incident, and the suspect detained less than a block away still in possession of both bloody sticker and wall hanging.
She wrote up the report, checked in with her detectives--all currently working active cases, put in a solid hour clearing paperwork, and still left right at the end of the shift. If she hurried, she could even squeeze in a quick workout in the gym before whatever gala Roarke had asked her to attend tonight. He'd provided the details, of course, but she'd promptly forgotten them; it had to be some sort of defense mechanism. Who in their right mind would want to spend the night in ankle breaking heels making small talk with every self-important figure in New York? She'd rather face down a serial killer unarmed.
Still, marriage rules were marriage rules, and Roarke did far more than his fair share of keeping up the bargain, so she'd grit her teeth, put in her appearance, and let everyone draw whatever incorrect conclusions they wanted about Roarke's cop. She'd draw the line at Trina though. If Roarke even thought about siccing Trina on her, all bets were off.
She was halfway to the garage when her communicator signaled. "Dispatch. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Double homicide in Central Park, multiple bystander casualties. Report to officers on scene."
She sighed and reversed direction, contacting Peabody and sending an apology to Roarke as she fought her way back up the glides. What was it about the holidays that made so many otherwise normal people commit murder?
You're up, alchemicink!