by J. D. Robb
He’d turned on the fire, and that made a nice welcome home. She decided the next step of welcome equaled a really big glass of wine.
As she chose one, opened it, it occurred to her she hadn’t had much taste for wine pre-Roarke. Could be, she thought, due to the fact that the wine she could afford in those days had been one dubious step up from horse piss.
She poured two glasses—Roarke’s Italian label because she had a yen for spaghetti and meatballs—and wandered into his office. She’d intended to simply set his glass on his desk and leave him to finish up the ’link meeting, but he signaled her to wait.
She noted the two people—one male, one female—on-screen. Everybody talked about those numbers, and margins and whatever the fuck. So she sipped her wine—definitely not horse piss—and walked over to his windows.
A fresh gust had the trees, right now still as bony as Summerset, bowing and swaying. She could see the lights of the city beyond the gates. Right then, from that vantage, it seemed more fanciful than the house she lived in.
Only minutes before she’d been in the thick of it, pushing and shoving her way through traffic, watching the sea of pedestrians surge through intersections. Every one of them, she thought, in a desperate rush to get somewhere.
Now she was out of it, and somewhere—exactly where—she wanted to be. Added to it, an evening without murder clawing at her brain.
Maybe she should pull out a cold case at random, see if fresh eyes and new angles could heat it up.
“All right then,” Roarke concluded. “I’ll have a look at the revised proposal tomorrow. Enjoy your evening.” He ended transmission. “Though you’ll be working through the evening if you want this to fly.” He waited for Eve to turn, then lifted his wine. “Thanks. You read my mind.”
“I wanted wine because my brain’s fried from spending two big hunks of my day with numbers and reports. You’re drinking it because you’re half celebrating dealing with them.”
“Isn’t it lovely that wine covers both? Since you had two hunks of your day free to deal with numbers and reports, I assume you’ve no new case.”
“Caught one, closed it.”
“There’s my clever cop.” He swiveled his chair, patted his knee in invitation. “Let’s hear about it.”
She gave him a stony look, then opted to ease a hip onto the side of his workstation as he often did on hers. “Drunk tripped going down the stairs in his apartment building while peeling an apple with his pocketknife. Broke his neck and stabbed himself in the gut. Pretty much simultaneously according to the ME. Tox came back with a .20 BAC. Rotgut brew on top of it. He took the spill before nine this morning.”
“There’s a sorry end. My own morning held what I believe will be a happy beginning. I met with Rochelle Pickering, offered her the position and a tour of An Didean. She accepted.”
“That’s really quick. Are you sure—”
“I am, yes,” he said. “But I have her file right here. Why don’t you look it over before dinner? If we’re agreed, I’ll send her copy of the signed contract.”
Really damn quick, she thought. “You signed it?”
“Signed by her, and witnessed, late this afternoon after she had it looked over. Signed by me, and witnessed, before I left for home. But not yet sent, so not yet official.”
He studied her, his cynical cop, over another sip of wine. Behind her hung a portrait she’d given him of the two of them on their wedding day.
“This is your place as much as it’s mine, so I waited until you could weigh in.”
“I’m not going to…” She searched for a word, fell back on one of his. “Bollocks this up. You’ve vetted her.”
“Read the file.” He patted his lap again.
“That’s a sneaky way of getting me to sit on your lap.”
“If I didn’t have sneaky ways, neither of us would be in this very pleasant office space.”
He had her there. Hell, he had her everywhere anyway. She sat on his lap. And when he brought up his reports on Rochelle, she began to read.
It took less than fifteen minutes for her to admit she was being a hard-ass. “Okay, okay.” She waved at the report on-screen. “She bangs the drum. You need a top shrink, and the kids deserve one not only with the chops, but who cares.”
“They do. I’ll add I liked her quite a lot. As did Caro.”
Two people, Eve admitted, who read people well and didn’t fall for bullshit easily.
“I’d still like to know where some seriously educated kid shrink met the bust-your-balls owner of a sex club.”
“I asked her about that today. Interestingly, at a memorial service, as you and I met as well.”
“One of her patients?”
“No, a friend of one of her patients. The girl, not yet sixteen, took her own life. Rochelle went to the service with her patient. Crack knew the girl and her family, as well as Rochelle’s patient and his family. This was Christmas week.”
“Suicide Central,” Eve murmured.
“Sadly enough. Rochelle saw how the boy related to Crack, and asked if he’d consider training as a mentor for disadvantaged and/or troubled youths.”
“Huh. He’d be good at it.”
“So she thought. He thought not, then later reconsidered, and they met to talk about it. They clicked on several levels. She was very open about her middle brother, and believes that while Crack isn’t his mentor, he’s been another steadying influence. So?”
“Send the contract. She’s probably pacing the floor waiting for it. Send it, and let’s go eat spaghetti and drink more wine.”
He kissed the back of her neck, sent the contract. “As it happens, pasta’s just what I’d planned for tonight. Summerset made fresh.”
“Meatballs?”
“The pasta—the actual noodles.”
“You can do that? Why do that?”
“I can’t tell you, but it apparently pleases him. It’s capellini—spicy.”
“Does it have meatballs?”
“We’ll find out.”
* * *
While Eve discovered zucchini—again?—instead of meatballs, Rochelle let out a wild scream in the tiny corner of her bedroom she’d used for office space since Lyle moved in.
She followed it with a whoop, then a dance.
She whirled around when Lyle rushed in.
“What the hell, Ro?”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were home.”
“Just walked in. I thought you were fighting off a rapist or some shit.”
“No. Nothing.” She laughed, waved a hand. “You’ve got the night off. I forgot.”
“First night off in eight straight.” Frowning at her, he leaned on her doorjamb.
He’d put back on the weight he’d lost to illegals and prison, and had a fit, healthy look that warmed her heart. And though she liked him clean shaven—he was handsome!—she didn’t mind the strip of scruff around his jawline. He wore his hair in short dreads.
Best of all, his eyes, nearly the same shade as hers, remained clear. A little tired, maybe, but clear.
“I’ll fix you something to eat.”
He pointed at her. “You’re dressed fancy again.”
“Not really fancy.” She did have on her second-best dress—the blue one with the banded cuffs—but she didn’t think it rated fancy. “I’m taking Wilson to dinner, but I’ve got time to fix you something.”
“I’m a cook, remember?”
Yes, he was, she thought—and it thrilled her.
“A cook with a night off. Missed having you around,” she added and walked over to hug him. There’d been a time he wouldn’t have returned the hug, but he did now, even lifted her a scant inch off the floor along with it.
“Why’d you scream?”
“I was just— Oh, I can’t hold it in. Why should I? It’s…”
He took a hard grip when her eyes filled. “You tell me what’s wrong, Ro. Right now.”
“Not wrong. Perfect. Look at my face
! I’m just so damn happy. It’s why I screamed, why I forgot about your night off. Why I can barely remember my name, except it’s right there, on the contract.”
He glanced toward her miniscreen. “What contract?”
“For my new job. For my dream job. Hell, here I go again.”
She screamed, grabbed him, and danced.
“You’ve got a job. You love your job. What dream job?”
“As head therapist at An Didean. The shelter and school.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard something about that place. Funny name. Wait. That’s a Roarke deal, right? You’re going to work for Roarke and the cop skirt.”
Grinning like a fool, Rochelle poked him in the chest. “She’d bust you for the skirt, but yes. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“Why would I? Man, Roarke turns shit into gold all the damn time. It must be a good place or you wouldn’t go into it.”
“It will be, a really good place. It’s scheduled to open in May. I have so much work to do to get ready!”
“Wait, back up. You said head. Like chief? Like numero uno?”
“With a staff of eight counselors, therapists, and an administrative assistant.” She put a hand to her ear as if listening. “Do you hear that word, Lyle? Staff!”
His whole face lit up, for her. “Jesus, Ro. This is a big fucking deal. Like monster fucking big. MFBFD.”
“I can hardly get my breath. It’s why I asked Wilson out to dinner. I wanted to tell him. You know what? I’ll tell him to come over here, we’ll order in and celebrate like maniacs.”
“Oh hell no, you take your fancy ass out with your man, have a big night. I was figuring on cleaning up, heading to a meeting, then over to see Gram and the gang. I haven’t seen her in a couple weeks, and she’ll skin my ass if it’s much longer. I’ll be late for dinner, but she’s always got leftovers. Then I thought I’d just bunk there or at Martin’s tonight.”
Or he did now, to give his sister and her man the place to themselves.
“Can I tell ’em?”
“Yes. Absolutely yes. And that I’ll get in touch tomorrow. Oh, Lyle, you should see the place. I got a tour today—from the boss! It’s just amazing. The thought and care that’s going into it. We’re going to change lives. We’re going to save lives.”
“You saved mine.”
“No, honey, you—”
“You’re a freaking wonder, Ro. I’m real proud.”
“So am I, of you.” She cupped his face. “So am I.”
“Get going. Get your fancy on, and tell Crack I said to take you dancing. Maybe you come by tomorrow lunchtime. I’ll cook you up something special.”
“I’m going to do all of that.” She grabbed her coat, stuck her arms in. “This is going to make a big difference for us, Lyle. Such a difference. You tell Gram to plan a big family dinner for your next night off. We’re going to celebrate till we drop.
“Crap, I’m going to be late.” She snagged a scarf and her purse on the run. “I love you, Lyle.”
“Back at you squared, Ro.”
* * *
She bubbled like a fountain all through dinner. Crack couldn’t stop grinning at her as she told him about the meeting, the tour, the offer, the contract. Her plans—already so many plans.
It was one of the things he loved about her. She planned ahead. She had a skill for being in the moment, focused on that moment and the person, but she also knew how to plan ahead.
She knew how to see what was, and what could be.
“Who knew when I met Roarke on Saturday night I’d end up working for him? I think Nicci did. You know my supervisor, Wilson. I think she had a feeling. Anyway, she said she did. I felt I had to tell her I’d accepted the offer, and was just waiting for the contract on Roarke’s end. She was happy for me, Wilson.”
“Sure she was. She ain’t no fool.”
“I’m going to miss working with that team. But oh, I’m going to have a new team, and with the tools we’ll have, the financing, the educators, it’s going to—” She broke off, laughing. “You need to stop me because I can’t stop myself.”
“Not in this lifetime. My Dr. Ro, head of the head shrinkers.” He put his big hand over hers. “How ’bout I get a tour of the place.”
“Yes, you have to see it. It’s so well planned, so inclusive. It has such heart. Wilson, you remember that awful thing about all those girls, the remains they found when they started the work there?”
“I remember.”
“They’ve got a roof garden, so the students can plant and grow things, so they can have places to go sit outside. They’ve put a memorial to those poor girls up there. It’s sad, but it’s also uplifting. Their lives mattered, and they’re remembered. It’s beautiful, Wilson.”
“I told you before we went to Nadine’s how they’re about the best people I know. Don’t know how I’d’ve gotten through after that crazy bastard killed my sister, my baby.”
Now Rochelle brought that big hand to her cheek, cradled it.
“That skinny white girl held on to me when I fell to pieces. She got justice for my baby. And the two of them, they planted that tree for her in the park. Kindest thing anybody ever did for me.”
He gave her hand a squeeze, picked up his beer to steady himself. “Now I know they’re smart enough to hire up the best. ’Cause that’s what you are. I love you, Ro.”
“Wilson.” He made everything inside her feel light and right. “I love you, too. It’s so strange, isn’t it? We met at such a sad moment, and here we are, making something so good together. I feel my life’s taking such a turn. Lyle finding himself again, you, now this. I can look back, remember, even feel how hard, scary, rocky things were. And now all this. I feel blessed, Wilson.”
“You earned every blessing.”
She smiled, leaned toward him. “How about we skip dessert?”
“You? My sweet-tooth lady?”
“Walt’s at the dorm for sure. Lyle’s staying at Martin’s. We have the apartment to ourselves. All night.”
“I’ll get the check.”
* * *
She giggled her way up the steps, grabbed him outside the apartment door for a steamy kiss. There was so much of him, all hard and cut and strong. He made her feel delicate when she was anything but.
She fumbled with her keys for the police-grade locks she’d paid to have installed. And reminded herself they’d be able to afford a better place, a better neighborhood, very soon.
Crack took the keys, unlocked the door. He swung her through with every intention of completing the circle until her back was against the closed door, and he could get good and started.
They both saw Lyle slumped in the chair in the tiny living space, vomit on his shirt, his eyes glazed and fixed, and the pressure syringe empty in his lap.
“No!” She started to leap forward, but Crack wrapped around her, held her firm against that closed door.
“You can’t touch him, Ro. You can’t touch anything.”
“You let me go! Lyle. Oh my God, Lyle. Let me go, goddamn it.”
She fought him, a strong, desperate woman. She cursed him, beat at him, but he held her back. Held her when she went limp. Held her as he lowered with her to the floor.
“No, no, no. Lyle. Please, please. Maybe he’s—”
“Baby, my baby, he’s gone. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry, Ro.”
“He wouldn’t. He wasn’t using, I swear it. He wouldn’t do this. He’d never do this.”
“I believe you. Look at me now. Just at me.” When she did, tears streaming, he kept rocking, but kept his eyes on hers. “We need the cops. I’m going to get somebody you can trust. I’m going to get Dallas.”
* * *
Eve nearly ignored the signal from her ’link. Dispatch would use the comm, and she really had nothing to say to anybody else. Especially since Roarke had accepted her shooting-range challenge.
She was going to take him down.
But she glanced at the
readout, saw Crack’s name. She figured in all the time she’d known him he’d tagged her maybe once, so something must be up.
She said, “Yo.”
And Roarke, just unbuttoning his shirt to change for the challenge, saw the cop take over in the next finger snap.
“Don’t touch anything. Don’t approach the body. Go out, lock up. Wait for me outside the scene. I’m on my way.”
Roarke had already buttoned his shirt again, and now handed her the weapon harness she’d taken off. “Who’s dead?”
“Rochelle Pickering’s brother, in their apartment. Looks like an OD.”
“Ah, Christ.” He thought of the woman who’d glowed as they’d toured An Didean, and felt sick at heart for her. “I’ll drive. I have the address.”
“Did she talk about him today?” Eve asked as they jogged downstairs.
“She did, yes.” As they moved, he remoted her vehicle from the garage. “She was very open about him, the trouble he’d been in, his time in prison, in rehab.”
He got the coats Summerset had tucked away, handed hers over. “He asked to live with her after this bout and his time in a halfway house, asked her to help him stay straight, to give him a year.”
The car rolled up as they went out into the wind.
“She told me he got a job, hasn’t missed a day of work. In fact, was given a raise just last month. He’d cut off all ties with the Bangers, goes regularly to meetings, mended fences with his brothers and the friends he’d had before he started using.”
She could check the record on the way, but she knew Roarke would have researched Lyle Pickering already. She’d use him as her data source for now.
“Give me a sense of him.”
Roarke rattled off the address to the in-dash as he drove to the gates. “If memory serves, he’s about twenty-six. His trouble started in his early teens. Truancy, petty theft, tagging buildings. Then the illegals, the gang. A bust for possession and malicious mischief while still a minor. A stint in juvie, rehab, community service. He lived in one of the gang flops for a couple years. I think you’ll find your Illegals division has considerable on him.”