Connections in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “When you put it that way.”

  “You could put it this way.” She lifted his hands, pressed them to her breasts.

  “You’re definitely feeling better.”

  “Yeah. You’re so pretty. I’m glad nobody punched you in the face.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over his cheeks. “Dreamcake.”

  “I’m sorry, that nickname’s taken. You have to think of your own.”

  “I’ll come up with something. Meanwhile.” She stripped off his sweater, ran her hands up that excellent torso, then up over his chest, his shoulders, into his hair as she leaned down to take his mouth with hers.

  A long, quiet kiss, one that soothed the soul, a soul that had felt more battered than the rest of her. Eased now, she thought, by his words, by his faith in her.

  It warmed her, this moment, this easy mating of lips and tongues. Centered her again. And all the violence faded away.

  His hands glided over her, gently, lighting little sparks inside the warmth, little flickers of need inside the love.

  He felt her give, felt her slough off the day with all its trials and tensions. Pressed his lips to the bruises on her shoulder, the war wound on the constant soldier.

  Shifting, he stripped off his pants so they could twine flesh to flesh. Her skin carried the scent of her bath, of forest shadows and secrets. He drew it in as he pressed his lips to her throat, to the pulse that beat there, to her life.

  “My love, my own, my only,” he murmured in Irish.

  The pulse quickened.

  She took him in, slow, slow, slow, with a shuddering sigh. He filled her, beat by trembling beat, his hands skimming down her sides to cup her hips.

  As she moved over him, and he in her, she felt the pleasure rise, felt it spread, felt it consume. All she was with all he was.

  He came up to her to enfold her as they took each other, still slow, slow, slow. Wrapped around him, she found his lips again as that pleasure, a long, strong wave, rolled through her.

  When her head fell back, she saw the moon, the white slice of it floating in the dark through the sky window. Beautiful and pure like the moment, like the easy mating.

  And with him, only with him, reached for it.

  Later, lying in the dark, curled against him and starting to drift toward sleep, she smiled. “You can be Dr. Sexpert.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just for tonight.”

  “Then never again.”

  He stroked her back to lull her the rest of the way to sleep, then felt the cat jump up to take his favorite spot. And so he brushed his lips over her forehead, and joined her in sleep.

  19

  She woke stiff, sore, and early. In the firelight Roarke stood, drinking coffee, watching the scroll on the wall screen as it reported from somewhere she assumed the stupid rotation of the planet made it later.

  She thought, sleepily, he looked almost as good in a suit as he did naked. And that was saying something.

  She started to roll out of bed, must have made some sound that acknowledged the annoyance of aches. He turned, studied her in the dim light.

  “Feeling it this morning?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We’ll do another round of ice and wanding.”

  “Maybe.” She eased out of bed, headed straight to the shower to pummel some of the aches into submission with hot jets.

  It helped, as did the coffee Roarke handed her—along with a blocker—when she came out. “Swelling’s down.” He stroked a gentle finger down her jaw. “And the bruising lessened. Let’s see what else we can do.”

  “It doesn’t hurt to look like I got punched in the face during arrests on the record in Interview.”

  “Always a bright side.”

  When they sat, he placed the ice patches, glided the wand over her face. “Let’s see the rest.”

  Rather than argue, she unbelted the robe, let him treat the shoulder, the ribs, her arms.

  “You should try to take a break sometime during the day, do another round.”

  “Breaking those bastards is all the healing up I need.”

  “You could do me a favor,” he said as he lifted the domes on breakfast. “Send me a running tally as you do.”

  Bacon, she noted—American style—an omelette, fruit, scones, and jam. Not bad.

  “I can do that.”

  “What’s your plan of attack?”

  “After the briefing, I’m taking the one you punched first—and if Dickhead doesn’t have the DNA, hasn’t passed that to Harvo for the other hair found on Duff? I’m siccing Whitney on him. The finger-snapping guy’s the asshole who had Rochelle’s earrings and Lyle’s earbuds in his idiot pocket. I break him, it all falls apart. And I get to tell Cohen even the bullshit deal he signed is rescinded.”

  “Why bullshit?”

  “I didn’t fill you in on that?” Breaking open a scone, Eve piled on enough butter and jam to delight any five-year-old. “The feds agreed to the Witness Protection—on the stipulation he told no falsehoods—after he’d faced prosecution on the accessories charges from us. So yeah, after he did fifty, minimum, on that, he could be Horace Dickwad of Bullshit, Iowa.”

  “He agreed to that?”

  “Yeah, he did, because he’s a crappy disbarred lawyer and he didn’t read the fine print.” She bit into the smothered scone. “Or maybe read it and just didn’t understand it.”

  “It just keeps coming back to morons.”

  “Yeah, it does, and with Cohen lying—it’s pathological with him. Since he lied about Jones, and probably more, no deal. He’ll never see the outside again. When we’re done with him, the feds slap him in a cage for the tax and fraud. Reo gets lots of points on how she handled this one.”

  It didn’t shock her to find spinach in the omelette, but at least it was well disguised with cheese and herby stuff.

  “I’ll take the Ticker guy next. It’s going to be his hair, his DNA.”

  “And save Jorgenson for the last of the three.”

  “He’ll go down the hardest, if I can make that happen. And there’s coordinating with the other interview teams as they take the rest. Strong and her teams.”

  “A big day.”

  “We took them down, now we wrap them up.” She ate while Roarke paused to point a warning finger at the belly-crawling cat. Galahad rolled over, shot up a leg to wash.

  The feline middle finger.

  “And what’s your plan of attack for the day?” Eve asked.

  “Well now, I do have to finalize the purchase of that galaxy.”

  “Funny guy.” Now she paused. “Not really, right?”

  He smiled at her, then picked up a tablet he’d left on the table. “I’ll be doing a bit more on this.”

  He opened it up, did something or other, and had the image on the tablet flashing on the wall screen.

  Eve saw a sprawling house—white with blue trim, a lot of fields, what looked like landscaping in progress. “What is it?”

  “Darling Eve, it’s your farm in Nebraska.”

  “What—” How the hell had he managed to turn a scary dump into a postcard? Maybe still scary to her urban eyes with all that empty land, but …

  “Still interior work going on, of course, though winding down. And the outbuildings…” He swiped at the tablet, did a run-through of a big red barn-thing, what she knew was a silo—another couple of buildings, fenced areas.

  “You had to pour giant buckets of money into that place.”

  “It took an investment, yes, and some vision, some skilled workers. Still in progress, as I said, but on schedule. And though it’s not yet on the market, I’ve had two offers. Or I should say you’ve had two offers. One’s for twenty percent more than the outlay.”

  “People are just crazy.” She scooped up more omelette. “Are you taking the offer?”

  “That would be up to you, but I’d advise holding. Let them finish the work.”

  “You get off on this, don’t you?”

>   Roarke did something else with the tablet, split screened the postcard house with the dump he bought—in her name—on a bet. “Who wouldn’t?”

  She considered as she ate. “I want to thank you.”

  “For the farm?”

  “No, Jesus, because that’s just nuts. For … what you said last night. I don’t know, not exactly, why this one’s hit so hard, why it just beat up something in me. I’ve dealt with worse. I’ll deal with worse, maybe tomorrow. Who the hell knows? And I know you’re going to have my back, like I have yours. Marriage Rules.”

  “And I’m such a stickler for rules.”

  “You are—when they’re your rules. Anyway, it wasn’t just that you pushed me to get it out, because that’s in the rules. It was what you said about why you take time away from buying galaxies to work with me, with the squad and Feeney.”

  She shifted to him. “I never really thought about it, not that way, I mean. It mattered. It matters. Maybe even more because we don’t always have the same lines, but we have the same purpose. That’s the big one. I meant it when I said, when I go in today, do the job, I’ll remember that.”

  He could think of nothing, so he framed her face, kissed her.

  “There’s one more. Maybe you should remember, you built Dochas, not because of rules or lines, but because of who you are. And you’re doing the same with An Didean. That, well, that’s your system. And it works.”

  “Eve. You undo me.”

  She took his hand, pressed it to her cheek. “That’s all the sugary stuff I’ve got.”

  “It’s more than enough.”

  “I’ve got to move.” She rose, glanced toward her closet. “Hell. I want to look mean. Maybe, just this time, you could go get whatever makes me look mean.”

  He grinned, rose. “Not just mean. Arrogant and fearless.”

  “That sounds good.”

  He gestured for her to follow him into the closet. “Leather pants, black. No, not those,” he said when she started to reach for a pair. “Those.”

  She wanted to ask what the hell was the difference, but she saw the subtle difference. The tough look of the metal button fly, the thick belt loops.

  “Shirt, not sweater. Not white or black. This.”

  She frowned at it, noting the color mirrored the metal. Her frown deepened when he chose a black vest with a trio of thick metal hooks in lieu of buttons.

  “Trust me,” he told her. “Instead of a jacket, the vest. It’ll show your weapon harness during Interview. Mean, arrogant, fearless. And bloody intimidating.”

  Last, he selected sturdy, mid-calf black boots with lacing that gave them a military look, and a black belt with a wide metal buckle.

  “You’ll scare the crap out of them,” he promised.

  Well, she’d asked for it, she reminded herself.

  Once dressed, she took a look in the mirror. “Okay. Okay, you know your stuff.”

  At her back, he laid his hands on her shoulders. “Go get ’em, Lieutenant.”

  “Bet your fine Irish ass.”

  “Take care of my cop—and her face.”

  She gave him a nod in the mirror. “I’m on it.”

  When she left, Roarke glanced back and saw that while he’d been distracted, Galahad had made the most of it. He’d gained the table, and now enthusiastically licked the plates.

  “I should call her back and have you arrested.”

  With a quiet belch, the cat sat and studiously cleaned the jam off his paws.

  * * *

  Once again, Eve—mostly—missed the morning traffic. Considering the raid the night before, she detoured to Jacko’s, loaded up on cinnamon buns. She’d sampled one on a previous investigation, knew their magnificence.

  Because they were there, she added in Danishes.

  Even with the stop, she got into Central with plenty of time to set up for the briefing. Before she moved into the conference room, she swung by Evidence, checked out what she needed.

  And since cop coffee felt like an insult to the cinnamon buns, she hauled in pots of coffee from her office AC.

  Jenkinson and his tie came in first. A horde, a flock? A shitload of multicolored butterflies swarmed over screaming blue.

  “LT, Reineke stopped to get—” He broke off, sniffed the air like a hound on the hunt. “That’s real coffee. Sticky buns? Roarke’s coming to the briefing?”

  “No.”

  Jenkinson—fast on his feet—already had a mouthful of bun. “Sent ’em? Nice.”

  “No, he didn’t send them.” It griped, sincerely. “He’s not the only one who can think of stuff.”

  “We got the best LT in the history of LTs.” Very fast on his feet. “How’s Peabody?”

  “She’s coming in unless I hear differently, so you can see for yourself.”

  Reineke came in with a couple of vending machine coffees. Like his partner, he sniffed the air. He dumped the coffees in the recycler, hit the pot with one hand, the pile of buns with the other.

  “Roarke’s the man!”

  “I got the damn buns. I got the damn coffee. I’m the man.”

  “The man,” Reineke said with his mouth full.

  Baxter walked in with Trueheart, said, “Score! Where’s—”

  “Ix-nay on the oarke-ray,” Jenkinson warned.

  “How will I ever break your diabolical code?” In disgust, Eve poured herself more coffee.

  Others wandered in, had their Roarke comments and questions stifled as the piles of buns and pastries depleted.

  Then attention—even for sticky buns—shifted as Peabody came in with McNab.

  Slight limp, Eve noted, because she favored the right knee, some NuSkin on facial cuts and scrapes, but all in all Peabody looked okay. Even a little flushed as fellow officers gave her high fives and fist bumps.

  Trueheart poured her coffee, doctored it her way. McNab got her a chair, then pulled another over, lifted her bad leg onto it.

  “Doc said it’d be good to keep it elevated when she’s sitting,” McNab explained.

  “Fine.” And sitting would be what she’d do until the knee healed. But she’d hit her partner with that order in private. “Let’s settle down, get started. We’ve got a long one coming.”

  During the shuffle, Whitney came in. He raised his eyebrows at what was left of the sticky buns and Danishes. “Are those Jacko’s? Roarke doesn’t miss a trick.”

  Jenkinson cleared his throat. “We owe the glory of the sticky buns and the real, Commander, to the generosity of Lieutenant Kick-Ass Dallas. She’s the man.”

  Applause followed.

  “That’s enough sucking up. Put your own kick-asses in chairs.”

  “Before you begin, Lieutenant—and let me add my thanks for the coffee and pastries—I’d like to say a word.”

  Whitney took a moment to scan the room. “First, I want you to know that Chief Tibble would have been here himself this morning but he’s in East Washington attending a convention. He was, however, kept fully informed, and sends his congratulations and appreciation for a job well done. I’ll add mine to his. Yesterday, you struck a hard blow against the lawlessness that has plagued two neighborhoods of this city. Through your actions and the investigation that led up to them, you’ve apprehended multiple suspects we believe are responsible for three murders, and others who have committed crimes of violence and intimidation against the people we serve.

  “I have no doubt that what you do today will rid those neighborhoods, our streets, our city of nearly three dozen individuals who preyed on it. To each of you, good work. Damn good work.”

  He glanced at Eve. “I won’t keep you from doing the work that needs to be done to close this out. We’ll have a media conference this afternoon—time to be determined. Chief Tibble will return from East Washington today and attend, as will I, Agent Teasdale representing the FBI, the prosecuting attorney, and APA Reo, Lieutenant Dallas as primary of the investigation, with Detectives Peabody and Strong, and Captain Feeney representing ED
D.”

  He smiled at her. “No good deed, Lieutenant. Kyung will let you know the when and where later today.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll leave you to it. And I’m taking one of these.” He walked to the table, picked up a sticky bun. “Good call on the pastries because what you’ve done is a big fucking deal. Carry on,” he said and walked out.

  “All right,” Eve began. “That said it all, and I’ll just say ditto from me. I’ll summarize—briefly—both prongs of the op before assigning two-man teams to individuals for Interview. We’ll be rotating to cover them all, with APA Reo available throughout.”

  Reo lifted a hand. “The PA and another APA will also be in house. As the commander said, this is a BFD, and we fully intend to charge and prosecute as many as we have in custody as possible. We’re shooting for a hundred percent on that. We are reviewing, and will continue to review, the records of all those arrested in the raids, and will work with the interview teams as needed.”

  “We’ll start having them brought up when we’re done here. Okay, summary. Two prongs, no waiting,” Eve began, and ran through the salient points before giving out assignments.

  “Officer Carmichael, if you’d arrange for the first wave of interviewees to be brought up to their designated boxes, we’ll get this party started. Everyone, review the sheets as well as the charges from last night as they come up. And nail them down. Dismissed.”

  She moved to the coffeepots, wasn’t surprised to find them all drained. Oh well.

  “McNab, don’t you have work to do?”

  “I was just going to help Peabody to the bullpen.”

  “Are you unable to walk on your own, Detective?”

  “No, sir. I’m good.” When Peabody started to rise, Eve gestured her back down, gave McNab a cool stare. “Dismissed,” she repeated.

  “Right. Later. Don’t forget to—” Now Peabody shot him a look, with a little plea in it. “Okay, later.”

  When he left, with a last glance back, Eve took a seat. “How bad is it? And don’t bullshit me. I’m asking as your boss, and I fully intend to contact Louise, so don’t bullshit me.”

  “He’s just being sweet,” Peabody began, then shifted under the cool stare. “The knee’s the worst. I’ve got to wear the brace for a couple days. Or a few maybe. And do a little PT. I didn’t break anything, but there’s a little tearing. Not bad,” she insisted. “Not like they have to go in and do anything. Just the brace, icing, the PT, and elevation when I can.”