“Nothing,” Peabody decided. “Do you want me to run the artists?”
“Trueheart’s doing that, and we’ll save time if she pins it down to one.” As she drove, ignoring the blasts of ad blimps and the farts of maxibuses, Eve decided it was as good a time as any.
“Nadine’s taking the rocker to this Hollywood thing.”
“I know.” Peabody gave a grin and the eye-roll equivalent of hubba-hubba. “He is frosty extreme, and seriously into her.”
“I don’t want to hear about their sex life.”
“Not that kind of into. Although . . . Anyway, going as a couple’s a major BFD for Nadine, I think.”
“Whatever. She’s taking him, but she has room on her transport and in the hotel.”
“You’re going! You’re going after all?” Peabody bounced in her seat, actually clapping her hands together. “You’re going to walk the red carpet of all red carpets! This is—”
“Oh hell no. Giant hell no. She’s got room for you and McNab. Feeney cleared it, so you can take off on Friday afternoon, report back Tuesday morning.”
Peabody said nothing, absolutely nothing. And stared straight ahead.
“What’s the problem?”
“I . . . I think I stopped breathing for a minute. You’re giving me time off to go to the Oscars? Nadine’s going to take us, and let us stay with her? Her and Jake the rock god?”
“She’s got room.”
Peabody kept staring ahead. “We’re in an active investigation.”
“I’ve got Baxter and Trueheart. And, strangely enough, I managed to close cases before I took you on. You’re not on the roll this weekend anyway,” Eve continued, “so I cut that OT out of my budget.”
“This is . . . I can’t think of a big enough word. I can’t think straight enough to make one up for it. As long as I can remember I watched the Oscars and all the beautiful clothes, the people.”
“Free-Agers watch Hollywood?”
“We’re not like monks, and I bet monks watch the Oscars, too. My granny? Man, she never misses. She has a big Oscar party every year. I still sort of watch it with her and the rest. I set up my home screen, have the family on my tablet so we all watch. Granny’s brutal when somebody wears something she thinks is stupid. It’s the best. And now I’m going to—Oh my God, what will I wear? I don’t have anything that’s Oscar worthy.”
“Roarke talked to Leonardo, so Leonardo’s covering that, for both of you.”
“I . . .” Now she turned her head, stared at Eve. “I’m wearing Leonardo to the Oscars?”
“Why do people say that? You’re not draping a big Leonardo all over you. Christ. Jesus Christ, if you cry the deal