She looked over at Eve, rolled her clever green eyes. “That’s what assistants are for, and assistants to assistants. And as far as the piece, the reporter can reschedule. I know. I’m a goddamn reporter.”
She yanked off the headset.
“Heavy is the price of fame,” Eve said.
“Tell me, but I wear it so very well. Can I have coffee?”
Obligingly, Eve moved to the AutoChef. Her own system kept begging to sag. Coffee would put it back on alert. Nadine sat, saying nothing.
She did wear fame well, Eve supposed. The streaky and stylish hair, the sharp features, the camera-ready suit. But Eve knew: Though Nadine might have her own show, though Now’s ratings were reputedly higher than a souped-up chemi-head, the woman was exactly what she’d claimed—a goddamn reporter.
“Who were you talking to during the briefing?”
“Who do you think?” Nadine countered.
Eve turned, offered the coffee. “Your research people to give you the pertinent details of the case from nine years ago.”
Nadine smiled, sipped. “Look who’s wearing her thinking cap today.”
“Some of the details on that investigation leaked.”
“Some,” Nadine agreed and the smile faded. “Some of the details on how the victims were tortured. I imagine there was a lot more, a lot worse, that didn’t leak.”
“There was more. There was worse.”
“You worked it.”
“Feeney was primary, I was his partner.”
“I wasn’t in New York nine years ago. I was fighting my way out of a second-rate network affiliate in South Philly. But I remember this case. I remember these murders. I bullied my way into doing a series of reports on them. That’s part of what got me out of South Philly hell.”
Nadine nodded, sipped more coffee. “What do you want?”
“You’ve got that research department at your fingertips now, being you’re a big shot.” Eve eased a hip down on the corner of her desk. “I want everything, anything you can dig up on the murders. All the murders. Here, Europe, Florida, South America.”