by J. D. Robb
“Be quiet, Mr. Lewis. I have ended this interview, Lieutenant, and demand my client’s right to a hearing.”
“Yeah, he’ll get his hearing.” She rose. “You’re a sap, Lewis, if you think this mouth in a pricey suit’s standing for you.”
“I got nothing to say. To cops or cunts.” Lewis looked up, sneered. But Eve saw the glitter of fear in his eyes.
“I guess that counts me out altogether.” Eve signaled to the guard. “Take this sack of shit to his hole. Sleep tight, Lewis. I won’t tell you to sleep, Canarde,” she said as she walked out. “I hear sharks don’t.”
She rounded the corner, slipped down a hall, and through a door where Whitney and Peabody stood in observation.
“The hearings are set for tomorrow. Starting at nine,” Whitney told her. “Canarde and his team put on the pressure to get them in.”
“Fine, our boys’ll still spend the night in a cell. I want to sweat Lewis again, before the hearing. We can push his hearing to the end of the group, give me some time with him tomorrow morning. He’s the one who’ll crack.”
“Agreed. You’ve never visited an off-planet rehabilitation center, have you, Lieutenant?”
“No, sir. But I’ve heard they’re gutters.”
“Worse. Lewis will have heard, too. Keep playing that note. Go home,” he added. “Get some sleep.”
“If I’d been in there,” Peabody said when they were alone, “I’d’ve rolled over on my mother. Could he really cop twenty-five off-planet?”
“Oh yeah. You don’t mess with a cop. The system frowns severely on it. He knows it, too. He’s going to be thinking about it tonight. Thinking hard. I want you back here at six-thirty. I want to hit him again early. You can stand in, look mean and heartless.”
“I love doing that. Are you going home?” she asked, knowing how often her lieutenant sent her off and stayed on the job herself.
“Yeah. Yeah, I am. After rubbing shoulders with that bunch, I want a shower. Six-thirty, Peabody.”
“Yes, sir.”
She’d missed dinner and wasn’t pleased to discover the candy thief who’d targeted her as patsy had found her newest stash. She had to settle for an apple someone had foolishly left in the squad’s friggie.
Still, it filled the hole so that by the time she got home she was more interested in a long, hot shower than a meal. She was slightly disappointed that Summerset didn’t slide into the foyer on her arrival so they could have their evening pissing match.
Shower first, she decided, jogging up the stairs. Then she’d track Roarke down. The shower would give her time to figure out just how much of her day she wanted to share with him.
Editing Ricker out of it, for the time being, seemed like the best path to marital harmony.
When she stepped into the bedroom, she saw the flowers first. It was difficult to miss them as there was a four-foot spread of them dead center of the room and the scent was sweet enough to hurt her teeth.
It took another moment to realize the flowers had long, skinny legs in black trousers.
Summerset. The shower could wait.
“For me? Gee, you shouldn’t have. If you don’t try harder to control your passion for me, Roarke’s going to fire your bony ass and make my life complete.”
“Your humor,” the flowers said in a dry, faintly Slavic voice, “eludes me as usual. This obnoxious and overstated arrangement just arrived by private messenger.”
“Watch the cat,” she began as Summerset stepped forward and Galahad strolled in his path. To her surprise and reluctant admiration, Summerset neatly sidestepped, avoided Galahad’s tail by a, well, a cat hair, and neatly set the enormous bouquet on the wide table in the sitting area.
Galahad leaped up, sniffed at it, then padded over to butt his head on Summerset’s leg.
“The flowers are for you,” Summerset said, and since she was looking, ignored the cat. “And as of now, they become your problem.”
“Who sent them? They’re not Roarke’s style.”
“Certainly not.” Summerset sniffed, a great deal as Galahad had done, and eyed the elaborate arrangement with distaste. “Perhaps one of your felonious acquaintances considers it a suitable bribe.”
“Yeah, right.” She snatched out the card, ripped it open, then snarled in a manner that had the cat leaping down and standing between Summerset’s legs. “Ricker, that son of a bitch.”
“Max Ricker?” Distaste turned to ice, the jagged sort that flayed skin. “Why would he send you flowers?”
“To get my goat,” she said absently, then a ripple of fear worked into her belly. “Or Roarke’s. Get them out of here. Burn them, stuff them in the recycler. Get rid of them fast. And don’t tell Roarke.” She grabbed Summerset’s sleeve. “Don’t tell Roarke.”
She made it a point never to ask Summerset for anything. The fact that she was, and urgently, had alarm bells sounding in his brain. “What’s Ricker to you?”
“A target. Get them out, damn it. Where’s Roarke?”
“In his office upstairs. Let me see the card. Have you been threatened?”
“They’re bait,” she said impatiently. “For Roarke. Take the elevator. Move. Get them gone.” She crumbled the card in her hand before Summerset could grab it from her. “Now.”
Dissatisfied, Summerset lifted the arrangement again. “Be very, very careful,” he said, then maneuvered them onto the elevator.
She waited until the doors closed before she smoothed out the card, read it again.
I never had the chance to kiss the bride.
M. Ricker
“I’ll give you the chance,” she muttered and carefully tore the card to bits. “The first time we meet in hell.”
She flushed the pieces, breathed a little easier, then stripped. She left her clothes where they fell, laid her weapon harness over the long counter, then stepped into the glass-walled shower.
“All jets full,” she ordered, closing her eyes. “One hundred and two degrees.”
She let the water beat at her everywhere, warm away the little chill the flowers had brought with them. She would put that aside and calculate how she would drill at Lewis the next morning.
Feeling better, she turned the jets off, squeezed some of the water out of her hair, and turned. Yelped.
“Jesus. Jesus Christ, Roarke, you know I hate when you sneak up on me like that.”
“Yes, I do.” He opened the door to the drying tube, knowing she preferred it to a leisurely toweling off. While the fan whirled, he strolled over to take her robe from the hook on the back of the door.
But when she stepped out, he held onto it rather than offering. “Who put those marks on you?”
“Huh?”
“Your arm’s bruised.”
“Yeah.” She glanced down, had an image of Ricker, his eyes burning as his fingers dug into her flesh. “You’re right. Must’ve run into something.” She reached for the robe only to have him hold it out of reach. “Come on, I’m not going to play your sick games in the bathroom.”
Such a statement usually made him smile. Her stomach began to quiver when his eyes stayed cool and steady on hers.
“They’re finger marks, Lieutenant. Who handled you?”
“For God’s sake.” Working up irritation, she snatched the robe. “I’m a cop, remember? It means I tend to run into a number of nasty characters in any given day. Have you eaten? I’m starving.”
He let her walk back into the bedroom, stand and fiddle with the AutoChef. Waited until she punched in a request. “Where are the flowers?”
Oh shit. “What flowers?”
“The flowers, Eve, that were delivered just a while ago.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just got—Hey!”
He’d spun her around so quickly her teeth nearly rattled. Might have if they hadn’t frozen solid at the fury in his eyes. The chill had turned to fire very quickly. “Don’t lie to me. Don’t ever fucking lie to me.”
“Cut it
out.” He had her arms. But even now, she realized, even when he was furious, he didn’t hurt her, and was careful to keep his grip away from the bruise. “Flowers come here all the time. What am I supposed to know about it? Now let me go. I’m hungry.”
“I’ll tolerate, and by God do tolerate, a great deal from you, Eve. But you won’t stand here and lie to my face. You have bruises on you put there since I last saw you, and by someone’s hand. Summerset is downstairs feeding a bunch of flowers into the recycler. On your orders, I assume, since he brought them up here first. Goddammn it, I can still smell them. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m not afraid of anything.”
“Then who? Who put the fear behind your eyes?”
“You.”
She knew it was wrong, knew it was cruel. And hated herself for it when his eyes went blank, when he stepped just a little too carefully back from her.
“I beg your pardon.”
She hated when he used that rigid and formal tone, hated it worse than a shout. And when he turned to walk away from her, she gave up.
“Roarke. Damn it, Roarke!” She had to go after him, take his arm. “I’m sorry. Look, I’m sorry.”
“I have work.”
“Don’t freeze me out. I can’t take it when you do that.” She dragged her hands through her hair, pressed the heels of them hard on her forehead where it had begun to throb. “I don’t know how to do this. Any way I do, it’s going to piss you off.”
Disgusted, she stalked back to the sitting area, flopped on the couch, scowled at nothing in particular.
“Why don’t you try the truth?”
“Yeah, all right. But you have to make me a promise first.”
“Which would be?”
“Oh, get the stick out of your ass and sit down, would you?”
“The stick in my ass is surprisingly comfortable just now.” He’d been studying her face, calculating, speculating. And he knew. “You went to see Ricker.”
“What are you, psychic?” Then her eyes popped wide and she was up and running again. “Hey, hey, hey, you promised.”
“No. I didn’t.”
She caught up to him in the hallway, considered trying to muscle him to the floor, then decided to go for his weak spot. She simply wrapped her arms around him.
“Please.”
“He put his hands on you.”
“Roarke. Look at me, Roarke.” She laid her hands on his face. The look in his eyes was murder. She knew he could accomplish it, hot or cold. “I baited him. I’ve got my reasons. And right now, I’ve got him shaken. The flowers were just a dig at you. He wants you to come after him. He wants it.”
“And why shouldn’t I oblige him?”
“Because I’m asking you not to. Because taking him down is my job, and if I play it right, I’m going to do that job.”
“There are times you ask a great deal.”
“I know it. I know you could go after him. I know you’d find a way to get it done. But it’s not the right way. It’s not who you are anymore.”
“Isn’t it?” But the rage, the first blinding rush of it, was leveling off.
“No, it’s not. I stood with him today, and now I’m standing with you. You’re nothing like him. Nothing.”
“I could have been.”
“But you’re not.” The crisis had passed. She felt it. “Let’s go in and sit down. I’ll tell you all of it.”
He tipped her face back, a finger under her chin. Though the gesture was tender, his eyes were still hard. “Don’t lie to me again.”
“Okay.” She closed a hand over his wrist, squeezed there in silent promise where his pulse beat. “Okay.”
chapter seven
So she told him, running through the steps and movements of her day in a tone very close to the one she’d used in her oral report to Whitney. Dispassionate, professional, cool.
He said nothing, not a word, stretching out the silence until her nerves were riding on the surface of her skin. His eyes never left her face and gave her no clue to what he was thinking. Feeling. Just that deep, wicked blue, cold now as Arctic ice.
She knew what he was capable of when pushed. No, not even when pushed, she thought as her nerves kicked into a gallop. When he believed whatever methods he used were acceptable.
When she was finished, he rose, walked casually to the wall panel that concealed a bar. He helped himself to a glass of wine, held up the bottle. “Would you like one?”
“Ah . . . sure.”
He poured a second glass, as steadily, as naturally as if they’d been sitting discussing some minor household incident. She wasn’t easily rattled, had faced pain and death without a tremor, had waded through the pain and death of others as a matter of routine.
But God, he rattled her. She took the glass he offered her and had to remind herself not to gulp it down like water.
“So . . . that’s all there is to it.”
He sat again, gracefully arranged himself on the cushion. Like a cat, she thought. A very big, very dangerous cat. He sipped his wine, watching her over the crystal rim.
“Lieutenant,” he said in a voice so mild it might have fooled another.
“What?”
“Do you expect me—honestly expect me—to do nothing?”
She set her glass down. It wasn’t the time for wine. “Yes.”
“You’re not a stupid woman. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you.”
“Don’t do this, Roarke. Don’t make this personal.”
His eyes flashed, a hard glint of blue steel. “It is personal.”
“Okay, no.” She could handle it. Had to. And leaned forward toward him. “It’s not, unless you let him string you. He wants it to be, wants you to make it personal so he can fuck with you. Roarke, you’re not a stupid man. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you.”
For the first time in more than an hour, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. “Well done, Eve.”
“He can’t hurt me.” Seeing her opening, all but diving through it, she shifted onto her knees, put her hands on his shoulders. “Unless you let him. He can hurt me through you. Don’t let him do that. Don’t play the game.”
“Do you think I won’t win?”
She lowered to her heels. “I know you will. It scares me knowing you will and what the cost could be to both of us. To us, Roarke. Don’t do this. Let me work it.”
He said nothing a moment, looking in her eyes, studying what he saw there, felt there. “If he touches you again, puts his mark on you again, he’s dead. No, be quiet,” he said before she could speak. “I’ll stand back so far, for you. But he crosses the line, and it’s over. I’ll find the way, the time, and it’s over.”
“I don’t need that.”
“Darling Eve.” He touched her now, just a skim of his fingertips over her jaw. “I need that. You don’t know him. As much as you’ve seen, as much as you’ve done, you don’t know him. I do.”
Sometimes, she reminded herself, you had to settle for what you could get. “You won’t go after him.”
“Not at the moment. And that costs me, so leave it at that.”
When he pushed off the couch, she felt the chill, swore under her breath. “You’re still pissed off at me.”
“Oh yes. Yes, I am.”
“What do you want from me?” Exasperated, she scrambled to her feet and wished she didn’t want to punch a fist into his gorgeous face for lack of a better solution. “I said I was sorry.”
“You’re sorry because I pinned you.”
“Okay, right. That’s mostly right.” Out of patience with him, with herself, she kicked viciously at the sofa. “I don’t know how to do this! I love you, and it makes me crazy. Isn’t that bad enough?”
He had to laugh. She looked so baffled. “Christ Jesus, Eve, you’re a piece of work.”
“I ought to at least get some sort of handicap for . . . Damn it,” she hissed as he
r communicator beeped. She resisted the urge to simply pluck it out and wing it against the wall. Instead, she just kicked the sofa again. “Dallas. What?”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DOS reported, George Washington Bridge, eastbound, level two. Victim is preliminarily identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, assigned to Precinct One two-eight, Illegals Division. You are ordered to report to scene immediately, as primary.
“Oh God. Oh Christ. Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia, to act as aide. I’m on my way.”
She was sitting now, her head weighing heavily in one hand, her stomach dragging to her knees. “Another cop. Another dead cop.”
“I’m going with you. With you, Lieutenant,” Roarke said when she shook her head. “Or alone. But I’m going. Get dressed. I’ll drive. I can get us there faster.”
The bridge sparkled, an arch teeming with lights against the clear night sky. In that sky, busy air traffic streamed, all but obliterating the tentative light of a thumbnail moon.
Life surged on.
On the second level of the bridge, closed now to traffic, a dozen black and whites and city units crowded together like hounds on a hunt. She could hear the ’link chatter, the mutters and oaths, as she cut through the uniforms and plain-clothes.
More lights, cold blue, iced white and blood red washed over her face. She didn’t speak but walked to the dirty beige vehicle parked in the break-down lane.
Mills was in the passenger’s seat, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest as if he’d stopped to take a catnap. From the chin down, he was blood.
Eve stood, coating her hands with Seal-It, and studied the position of the body.
Posed, she thought as she leaned in the open window. She saw the badge, facedown on the bloody floor of the car, and she saw the dull glint of silver coins.
“Who found him?”
“Good Samaritan.” One of the uniforms stepped forward, as if he’d been waiting anxiously for his cue. “We got him stashed in a unit with a couple of cops. He’s pretty shook.”
“You get a name, a statement?”
“Yes, sir.” Smartly, the uniform flipped out his notebook, keyed in. “James Stein, 1001 Ninety-fifth. He was heading home from work—worked late tonight—and saw the vehicle in the break-down lane. Wasn’t much traffic, he said, and he saw somebody sitting in the car. Felt bad about it. Stopped, went over to see if he could lend a hand. When he saw the deceased, he called it in.”