“It’s kind of nice doing that after a special night out.”
“Eat in bed, bang more. I caught this case a few years back. Couple’s doing the V-Day deal, big-time, retro, dinner and dancing at the Rainbow Room.”
“Romantic, classic.”
“Yeah, and while the guy’s dropping about two grand on overpriced pork medallions, the wife goes off to the john. While she’s in there, her ’link signals—left it or forgot it on the seat of the booth—and he takes a look. Turns out it’s a text from the guy she had a romantic room-service lunch and hotel sex with that same afternoon. So the husband takes a closer look, finds lots of sexy texts between his wife and hotel-sex guy where they have a couple of good chuckles about her clueless husband and his substandard banging.”
“Ouch.”
“So—” Eve spotted her chance, zipped to the curb in front of a massive delivery truck, which expressed its annoyance with a barking horn. “This caterer place should be about a block and a half west.”
She got out and, after judging the traffic, Peabody managed to nip out of the passenger side and squeeze between bumpers to the curb.
“What did the husband do?”
“He asked for the bill, signed for it. When the wife got back, he gave her the ’link, said ‘Happy Valentine’s Day, bitch,’ and stabbed her in the neck with his dinner knife.”
“Holy shit. He killed her, right in the Rainbow Room?”
“They had a candlelit corner booth. Nobody noticed this woman bleeding out while her husband polished off the rest of the champagne. Let that be a lesson to you.”
“To me?”
“Stay home and bang.”
Peabody, muffled in her scarf, aimed a suspicious look. “You made all that up.”
“Elina and Roberto Salvador, 2055 or ’56—not quite sure. You can look it up.”
The minute they stepped into Jacko’s, the siren scent of yeast and sugar assailed them. Peabody audibly moaned.
“I didn’t know it was a bakery.” Peabody closed her eyes, drawing in the scent. “I didn’t know.”
Not just a bakery, Eve noted. Through a side opening, tables and chairs, a bar, and a hostess podium stood in the dark. But here, in this section, the lights were on and sparkling on glass displays of muffins and pastries, coffee cakes and breads with drizzles of white icing.
Staff in white smocks bagged, boxed, and rang up purchases briskly. Customers waited while others carried out those fragrant bags and glossy boxes.
“Wipe the drool off your chin,” Eve advised, walking to the far end of the counter where a pretty girl of about twenty constructed more boxes.
“Need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, if there’s a problem, I…” She trailed off, big blue eyes going bigger as Eve palmed her badge, held it up. “Oh. Oh, gosh. Just a minute, okay? Just a minute.”
She bolted, down the counter and through a swinging door.
“I know you personally can go days without actual food—which makes no sense as you have no body fat stored—but I need to eat.” Peabody huffed out a breath. “I was going to settle for a yogurt bar and egg pocket from a cart or Vending, but jeez.”
“Get something when we’ve finished the interview.”
“They have cinnamon buns,” Peabody said reverently. “Cinnamon sticky buns.”
“Don’t bitch about your own sticky bun after you scarf one down.”
“They are not to be scarfed, the cinnamon sticky bun, but savored.”
The pretty young thing hurried back. “Ma’am,” she began in a stage whisper, “Jacko can’t come out of the kitchen right now, so if you could go back?”
“Sure. We’ll go back.”
At the girl’s direction, they moved down the counter. On the other side of the swinging doors, the baking smells nearly had Eve’s reputedly zero body fat moaning out loud.
Besides a wall of busy ovens, she spotted some sort of mixer nearly as big as the woman running it, a line of stainless-steel cabinets, what she took to be a mammoth refrigerator, and racks full of trays and supplies.
At one counter, a man in a skullcap used some sort of tool to add tiny petals and leaves to a towering cake. At another, a girl used a different tool to squeeze batter into a tray filled with pleated cups.
At the center of it all, at an island counter, a big, broad-shouldered man wearing a white trailing cap and smock rolled out dough while he sang about getting down to live it up. He had a voice like a foghorn.
“Uncle Jacko? Here’s the police.”
“Huh? Oh, okay, okay. You’re a good girl, Brooksie. Go on back out.” Still rolling, he gestured at Eve and Peabody with his chin. “Come on over. We got a run on the buns like always. Gotta see the badges.”