“Is that a joke, Peabody?”
“You bet. Ha ha.” A line of sweat dribbled down her back as she attacked the keys. “There. There it is. No problem, no problem at all. And off it goes into the main. Neat and tidy.” She let out an enormous sigh. “Could I maybe have some coffee? Just to keep alert.”
Eve shifted her gaze to the screen, saw nothing that looked ominous. Saying nothing, she rose and ordered coffee from the AutoChef.
“Why do you want to know about Wicca? You thinking of converting?” At Eve’s bland look, Peabody tried a smile. “Another joke.”
“You’re full of them today. Just curious.”
“Well, there’s some overlap on basic tenets between Wiccans and Free-Agers. A search for balance and harmony, the celebration of the seasons that goes back to ancient times, the strict code of nonviolence.”
“Nonviolence?” Eve narrowed her eyes. “What about curses, casting spells, and sacrifices? Naked virgins on the altar and black roosters getting their heads chopped off?”
“Fiction depicts witches that way. You know, ‘Double, double, toil and trouble.’ Shakespeare. Macbeth.”
Eve snorted. “‘I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.’” The Wicked Witch of the West. Classic vid channel.
“Good one,” Peabody admitted. “But both examples feed into the most basic of misconceptions. Witches aren’t ugly, evil crones mixing up cauldrons of goop or hunting down young girls and their friendly, talking scarecrows. Wiccans like to be naked, but they don’t hurt anything or anyone. Strictly white magic.”
“As opposed to?”
“Black magic.”
Eve studied her aide. “You don’t believe in that stuff? Magic and spells?”
“Nope.” Revived with coffee, Peabody turned back to the computer. “I know some of the basics because I have a cousin who shifted to Wicca. He’s into it big time. Joined a coven in Cincinnati.”
“You’ve got a cousin in a coven in Cincinnati.” Laughing, Eve set her own coffee aside. “Peabody, you never cease to amaze me.”
“One day I’ll tell you about my granny and her five lovers.”
“Five lovers isn’t abnormal for a woman’s lifetime.”
“Not in her lifetime; last month. All at the same time.” Peabody glanced up, deadpan. “She’s ninety-eight. I hope to take after her.”
Eve swallowed her next chuckle as her tele-link beeped. “Dallas.” She watched Commander Whitney’s face swim on-screen. “Yes, Commander.”
“I’d like to spe
ak with you, Lieutenant, in my office. As soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir. Five minutes.” Eve disengaged, shot a hopeful glance at Peabody. “Maybe we’ve got something going. Keep working on those files. I’ll contact you if we’re heading out.”
She started out, stuck her head back in. “Don’t eat my candy bar.”
“Damn,” Peabody said under her breath. “She never misses.”
Whitney had spent most of his life behind a badge and a large part of his professional life in command. He made it his business to know his cops, to judge their strengths and weaknesses. And he knew how to utilize both.
He was a big man with workingman hands and dark, keen eyes that some considered cold. His temperament, on the surface, was almost terrifyingly even. And like most smooth surfaces, it coated something dangerous brewing beneath.
Eve respected him, occasionally liked him, and always admired him.
He was at his desk when she stepped into his office, lines of concentration puckering his brow as he read over some hard copy. He didn’t glance up, merely gestured toward a chair. She sat, watched an air tram rumble by his window, baffled as always by the number of passengers with binoks and spy glasses.
What did they expect to see behind the windows where cops worked? she wondered. Suspects being tortured, weapons discharged, victims bleeding and weeping? And why would the fantasy of such misery entertain them?
“I saw you at the viewing last night.”