Page 89 of Bonded in Death

“I don’t see him going to a gym, but we’ll check. More likely he has his own equipment. He’s the quiet guy in the neighborhood, or the building. Keeps to himself, but not so much you’d notice. You’re riding an elevator with him, he’s got a smile, a nod, maybe a word. Polite, a little aloof maybe, but polite. ‘Good afternoon, Ms. Smith. Lovely weather today.’”

At Eve’s attempt at a poncey British accent, Peabody grinned.

“He’d keep the accent?”

“Most likely. It’d be hard to put on the American for years without risking a slip. And there are plenty of Brits in New York.

“He’s got a background story if he needs it. Probably a widower, no kids, retired.”

“From what?”

“Something he can slide into,” Eve calculated. “From the military, government work, diplomatic service. Just a quiet, polite, well-dressed British gentleman who enjoys a round of golf and a good, close shave.”

She turned again when she heard someone approach.

Cyril Snowden, slim, small statured, stepped in. He had large, sad hazel eyes, and skin so white Eve imagined it burning red at the first beamof sunlight. In contrast, his hair was a deep russet brown with well-placed highlights. It flopped over his forehead and ears.

He tried a smile that couldn’t reach those sad eyes.

“It’s my turn in the barrel, I’m told.”

“We’ll try not to roll you too hard, Mr. Snowden.”

“Cyril, please. I feel almost as if I know you. I’ve kept up with the lives of my friends,” he added. “You’re in the life of my friend. You do very good work. I feel… It’s good to know you’re the ones in charge.”

“Can I get you some tea?” Peabody offered. “Coffee?”

“Tea would be very nice, thank you. Just a bit of cream, no sugar.”

“Have a seat.”

Eve sat across from him. “You were one of the cyber operatives for the unit.”

“Yes, Wasp and I. We often worked together. Sometimes in tandem, sometimes on separate areas. It’s why I wasn’t there. I wasn’t even there when it happened. Gio was with the prison team with our portables. Eyes and ears, you know. Thank you, Detective.”

He took the tea, wrapped both his hands around the warmth of the cup.

“Not as sophisticated or effective as we have now, of course, but very good. I was at HQ with Rabbit, running comms, tracking locations. So I wasn’t there, and there was nothing we could do to help. It happened so fast. Fawn turned on her comm, and we could hear…”

He closed his eyes. “I hear it still. Her warning us, him cursing her. How she fought. Then the running, then… She and Hawk were gone, and there was nothing we could do. Now Gio.”

He lifted his tea. “We’d meet once or twice a year, Gio and I. Same line of work, so no harm in it. We had dinner at his home, my husband and I, our children. Met his family. A lovely family.”

Eve thought the grief soaked him, so somehow his face lost more color.

“Tell us about Potter, the one you thought you knew.”

“Ah well.” He sat back, nodding slowly. “Intelligent—very sharp. Experienced. I would have said dedicated to ending the conflict, to restoring order. He liked order.”

“Organized?”

“Yes, very. He’d have something to say if someone didn’t deal with dishes or tossed a coat or jacket on a chair. He liked things just so. Himself included. Clothes pressed—excellent clothes—hair combed, face shaven, shoes shined. The work—especially Magpie’s—caused us to be a bit disheveled. He didn’t care for that.

“He could be a bit of a prick.”

“Examples?”

“If we were working late in HQ and were lucky enough to score some hot food, someone might bring in fish and chips. Or someone might cook up some soup or stew. And he’d go on about how British cuisine was rubbish. And he’d give the Italians credit for theirs, but the French had it better.

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