“Are they illegal enough I could use them as leverage?”
“Weak.” With a shake of his head, Roarke took a pull of her water. “Leverage for what?”
“Letting me see all of Bastwick’s client correspondence. He’s citing privilege. Reo’s on it,” she added, “and hell, if there was anything, Bastwick would’ve pulled it for the threat file. But it pisses me off getting blocked out.”
“That’s for tomorrow, as is all the rest.”
She would’ve argued, but the simple fact was she’d done all she could until morning.
Roarke waited until she’d shut down, took her hand. As he walked out of the room with her, he glanced at her board.
Seeing her face there brought him a quick and violent anger, and a cold, clammy fear.
She knew it for a dream, had been resigned to dreaming even before Roarke wrapped her close, before she’d shut her eyes.
She’d floated through them, dream to dream, a voice, an image, a memory.
In the car with Roarke, stopped in the driveway, falling on each other, tearing clothes, desperate, insane to feel, needing him inside her, pounding, pounding, as if her life depended on it.
And neither of them aware Barrow had planted that subliminal command, that life-or-death desperation to mate.
In the closet, at the party, and she injured and bruised. Roarke pushing her against the wall, tearing into her with no care, driven to the wild and feral by that same planted seed.
“Ssh, just a dream.”
Somewhere outside that dream she heard him, felt him soothing her, stroking all that hurt and insult away again.
That’s what Barrow had done, to both of them. That’s what Bastwick had defended.
And worse. Worse.
Mathias, hanged by his own hand, Fitzhugh bathed in his own blood. Devane, throwing her arms out, embracing death as she threw herself off the ledge of the Tattler Building.
He hadn’t used what had done that to them—someone else had—but he’d created it. For money, for profit, for power.
And Roarke, Roarke had very nearly been next. The trap had been laid, the seed waiting to be planted for him to take his own life.
And Bastwick had defended.
“I do my job, you do yours, correct, Lieutenant?”
In the packed courtroom, faces strange and familiar looked on as Bastwick rose from the defense table. She wore one of her sharp, lawyerly suits, bold red, perfect cut, with high, high heels in a steely metallic gray that would catch the eye. A subtle method of drawing attention to her legs. Her hair swept back from her coolly beautiful face, a sleek blond roll just above the nape of her neck.
Eve sat in the witness chair. A wide beam of sunlight poured through the window, flooding her. Behind her, oddly, a huge statue stood. Blind Justice with a smirk on her face.
“I’m doing mine,” Eve responded.
“Are you? Are you, Lieutenant, or are you just looking for yet another way to seek revenge on my client, Jess Barrow?”
Bastwick swept her arm, and part of that flooding sunlight fell over Barrow. He sat at a control center, turning knobs, adjusting levers. He grinned, winked at Eve. “Hey, sugar.”
“You’re not in this,” she said to him. “Not this time.” She turned her attention back to Bastwick. “I’m looking for your killer.”
“Oh really? Then why waste time with Jess? He’s in prison because you coerced a confession out of him, after you physically assaulted him. Your husband assaulted him.”
“Didn’t you like the sex, Dallas?” Jess called out. “Can’t blame me for that.”
“The courts ruled on Barrow,” Eve said evenly. “You lost that one. Deal with it.”
“And now you’re looking for my killer? You hated me as much as you hate Jess. More.”
“Knowing you’re a stone-cold bitch, a manipulator, a liar? That isn’t the same as hating you. And either way, I’ll do my job.”
“What’s your job?”
“Protecting and serving the people of New York.”
Bastwick slammed her hands down on the rail in front of Eve as blood welled in the thin wound in her throat.
Eve heard Blind Justice chuckle as if quietly amused.
“Does it look like you protected me?”
“I’ll protect and serve by getting your killer off the street. I’ll protect and serve by doing whatever I can to identify and apprehend your killer.”
“We already know who killed me. Everyone here knows who’s responsible for my death. You killed me.” Dramatically, she swung toward the jury. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Lieutenant Eve Dallas killed me.”
Yes, familiar faces in the jury box, Eve noted. Faces of those, like Barrow, she’d helped put away.
Reanne Ott—the one who had used Barrow’s program to kill; Waverly, who’d killed in the name of medical advancement; the Icoves, of course; Julianna Dunne. Put you away twice, Eve thought.
Others, others who’d killed for gain, for the thrill, out of jealousy or greed. Or simply because they’d wanted to.
Stacked the jury against me, Eve decided as she looked back at Bastwick. Wrong play, Counselor, as seeing them helps me remember why I do what I do.
“You,” Bastwick said as Eve studied her coolly. “I’m dead because of you.”
“The problem with that argument, Counselor, is once justice was served in regard to Jess Barrow, I never gave you a thought. You didn’t mean anything to me. Maybe you shouldn’t have tried to get that asshole off by mouthing off to the media, doing what you could to shift attention to me.”
“Now it’s my fault?” Bastwick swiped a hand at her throat so her fingers came away red and dripping. “This is my fault?”
“No. It’s not on you. It’s not on me. It’s on whoever wrapped that wire around your throat. I’m going to find them, stop them, because that’s my job.”
“And what will you do?” Bastwick leaned closer. “What will you do, Lieutenant, when the one who killed me no longer sees you as so special, so worthy—and comes after you?”
“Whatever I have to do.”
“You’ll protect yourself! Protect yourself when it’s too late to protect me. Not protect whoever’s next, whoever will die in your name. You protect no one but yourself because you don’t have a job until someone’s dead. Without the killer, you’re nothing. The killer is your only true friend.
“I rest my case.”
She woke shaken as Roarke drew her closer and the thin gray dawn eked through the sky window over the bed.
“You haven’t slept long enough, or well.”
She wrapped around him, took in the warmth, the scent. “Then neither did you.”
“You’ve some time yet.” He stroked her back, long easy glides. “Try to sleep a bit more.”
But she shook her head, burrowed into him. “Can’t. Too much in my head.”
“Why don’t I get you a soother?” Now he brushed his lips at her temple. “Just enough to relax you so you can drift off again.”
He would, she thought. The man who could command—well, damn near anything—who owned an embarrassing chunk of the civilized world, and probably a bigger one of the uncivilized, would get up at dawn and bring her a soother.
Knowing it, feeling it, made her smile, made her forget—just for a minute—how cold and hard the world could be.
“Why don’t you be my soother?” She tipped her head up so her lips grazed his chin. “And maybe I can be yours.”
She shifted up, slid up so her lips met his. And there it was, she thought, all the connection she needed. Mouth to mouth. Love to love.
She stayed wrapped tight, craving the warmth of him, the shape of him—lean and hard.
Not to drift off, but to drift away on all he had for her, all he’d give even when she didn’t think to
ask. With him she could slide so easily out of misery and into pleasure, knowing he’d hold strong—even when she didn’t think to ask.
She’d murmured and tossed in her sleep, caught in dreams that pinched and taunted. Had trembled in them so he’d added logs to the fire, had held her close to chase away the chill.
Now she turned to him, pale, heavy-eyed, asking only for love. Asking only he take it back from her.
So he soothed, taking her slowly, deeply into the kiss, away from dreams, from the cold, from the shadows and the bright, hard lights.
All soft, the dawn, the simmer of the fire, the sweep and glide of his hands over her. His warrior, more wounded than she knew.
And lovely, so much more lovely than she believed. His long, lanky cop, with her tough mind, her sharp eye, and a heart that felt too much.
She opened for him, a fascinating flower with thorns he respected and risked.
When he slipped inside her she sighed. When he murmured her name she arched up, to take more of him. Take all of him.
• • •
While Eve moved under Roarke, felt the day begin with some beauty, the sexless delivery person strode briskly toward the grimy, graffiti-laced flop a half block inside the filthy, all-but-forgotten area locals called the Square.
The chemi-heads, funky-junkies, ghosts, and gamers didn’t troll the streets in winter, not at dawn. Some, certainly some, would still be underground, at places like Ledo’s favorite hellhole, Gametown.
But typically, Ledo crawled back in his flop before dawn. And since the funk had screwed with his eyesight, he didn’t score as much at hustling pool. He could still bag another junkie, managed a quick bang in exchange for some Rush or X, but the illegals-dealing, scrawny asshole hustler who’d insulted and assaulted Eve Dallas had fallen on very hard times.
Even those times were about to come to an end.
The shipping box served as cover, though that cover was likely not needed here. Flops like this didn’t run to security cams or palm plates.
But careful and thorough was successful.
The street door wasn’t even locked, and though two sidewalk sleepers had crawled in out of the cold to sleep on the skinny patch of floor, neither of them stirred as the figure in the thick brown coat stepped over them.
They smelled like a sewer, brought nothing constructive to the world. But ending their lives, pathetic as they were, served no real purpose.
It held no real glory.
Excitement built on the climb up the stairs, and the anticipation of killing again—this time knowing the rush of it, an immense satisfaction.
The importance of the work.
All of it offered to Eve, even that, all offered to her in open friendship. The man who had once bruised her face would finally meet justice.
There was no question Eve would be pleased, very pleased now to know scum like Ledo had been removed from society.
Protect and serve.
Ignoring the stench of piss and vomit, the killer dealt quickly with the thin and pathetic lock on the flop door.
If Ledo wasn’t alone, had managed to lure a junkie or street LC to his bed, it would be a twofer.
Either way this time, surely this time, Eve would see, would understand, would send some sort of sign that she valued her true friend’s devotion.
Soundlessly, the killer slipped into the flop, closed and locked the door. Added a temp bar lock, just in case.
Rhythmic, nasal snoring came from the left. The thin beam of a penlight found Ledo, sprawled on a dirty mattress. Alone.
Satisfied, the killer set down the box, took the stunner from the coat pocket, and got down to work.
• • •
It felt normal, having breakfast with Roarke in the sitting area of the bedroom—despite the fact he’d chosen oatmeal. If she’d gotten to the AutoChef first, she’d be eating pancakes, but she’d loitered in the shower and had no one to blame but herself.
As Galahad had less interest in oatmeal than she did, he stretched himself over the back of the sofa, tail twitching, bicolored eyes watchful, obviously hoping bacon would magically appear.
Settled—and really, if you put lots of brown sugar, honey, and fat berries in oatmeal, you could pretend it was something else—she told Roarke about the dream.
“Even your subconscious should know better. You’re not responsible for the actions and choices of someone bent on killing.”
“Yeah, and mostly I get that, know that,” she corrected. “It feels like I was working out something else. Bastwick was just a vehicle. We have to investigate all the angles, follow procedure, and we are. But we’re not going to find some resentful coworker or bitter ex-lover. Worse, the only way we can really shift the focus onto what I think is the meat, will be when there’s another body with another message for me.”
Bastwick had been right, Eve thought, she couldn’t protect the next.
“The killer is my friend,” Eve murmured. “She said that.”
“And it’s bollocks.”
“Not complete bollocks. Clear it all away, and my work is pursuing killers. Nobody kills anybody, no work. That’s cold logic. And maybe it’s the killer’s logic.”
“All right,” he conceded, “that may be cold logic, but it’s also twisted.”
“So’s the killer, so it fits. Justice—you know the statue with the blindfold—got a kick out of it all. I figure that’s because Bastwick and I knew, just like any cop and lawyer know, Justice peeks under the blindfold plenty.”
She scooped up more oatmeal because it was there. “It’s interesting.”
He’d have preferred the dreams take a holiday and let her sleep easy.
“You’ll be speaking with the woman who wrote you, the paralegal.”
“Hilly Decker, yeah. We’ll get that checked off first thing this morning. She lives, and works, near Central, so I’ll hook up with Peabody there, on the way in.”
“It’s not a complete shift, but it’s a few steps down the other path. And Mira will have more . . . candidates for you today.”
“‘Candidates.’” She managed a short laugh. “For Dallas’s new best friend. I’m not really clear on how I ended up with the friends I actually have, but I do know a top requirement is no murdering lunatics need apply.”
She shoveled in more oatmeal—get it over with. “Talk to Summerset, okay? Before you go off to buy your next continent or whatever.”
“I will.” Feeling her nerves, he rubbed his hand along the side of her thigh. “And yes, I’ll meet with my own media and public relations people. Those are the last things you need to worry about.”
“Right.” She rose, crossed over to retrieve her weapon harness, strap it on over a plum-colored turtleneck. “I’m going to review a few things here,” she began, sticking her badge in the pocket of charcoal-gray trousers, hooking her restraints to the back of her belt. “Then I’m heading out. We’re early enough, so Peabody and I should be able to catch Decker before she leaves for work.”
She picked up a jacket, frowned at it. “This isn’t the one I got out of the closet.”
“It’s not, no, but it’s the right jacket.”
Since it was the same gray as the pants and had a pencil-thin stripe that matched the sweater, she had to assume he was right. Anyway, it was there, so she shrugged into it.
Then narrowed her eyes. “Do I look like an accountant?”
“Not in a million years. No offense whatsoever to accountants.” He rose, went to her. “You look like a well-dressed cop.”
“That’s a—what do they call that thing?—oxymoron. Except for Baxter. Shit, I’ve got to talk to him, too, and Reineke and Jenkinson.” She rubbed the slight ache between her eyebrows when Roarke said nothing. “I’ve got to talk to them all. They’ll have bits and pieces by now, that’s how it works. I’ve got to br
ief them all.”
“You run a well-oiled division with good cops.”
“They are good cops. Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care of my particular, and well-dressed, cop.” He kissed her lightly.
As she drew away, her communicator sounded. And dread rolled through her.
She pulled it out. “Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 524 Avenue B, unit 311. Possible homicide. Victim visually ID’d by responding officers as Ledo—first name unknown at this time. Responding officers report written message left for Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Possible connection to ongoing investigation.”
“Yeah, I got that. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”
“Confirmed. Dispatch out.”
“Ledo.” Eve shoved down the guilt. “For Christ’s sake.”
“I’m going with you so you can tell me who he is on the way.”
“There’s no need for you to—”
“I’d like to go with you.” Roarke took her shoulders, firmly. “Then I’ll get out of your way. If you don’t want to think about your husband’s natural concern, consider me that fresh eye and viewpoint.”
“Okay, fine, you drive. I can see what Ledo was up to since the last time I dealt with him.”
She moved fast, grabbing her coat off the newel post, swinging it on, hesitating only a moment when Roarke held out a scarf she recognized as one Peabody had made her for Christmas.
“It’s cold,” he said.
“Fine, fine.” She wrapped it on as she headed for the door, grateful Peabody had gone with muted colors.
As she strode toward the waiting car, engine and heat running, he pulled a ski cap over her head.
“It’s black. Live with it.”
Rather than argue—or point out he wasn’t wearing a stupid hat—she jumped in the passenger seat, pulled out her PPC to do a quick run on Ledo.
“First name Wendall—who knew? Age thirty-four. You’d peg him as a decade older, but that’s chemical abuse among every other abuse you can think of. He did a quick stint for possession since I saw him last—six-month sentence, four served, with mandatory rehab—got that checked off, and I can promise you it didn’t take. Repped by court-ordered attorney. No connection to Bastwick I can find here, and there’s not going to be. Unless we’re counting me.”