Connections in Death (In Death #48)(28)

She studied her selection of boots, the number of which continued to be an embarrassment for her. Milder embarrassment than it once had been, but still.

She started to grab brown ones, but she knew damn well the navy ones with the brown leather down the sides went with the damn jacket, and if she took the plain brown, Roarke would switch them out anyway.

Why give him the satisfaction?

She pulled on the pants, a support tank, reached for the shirt.

And damn if Roarke didn’t stroll in, take it, replace it with another white shirt. “You’re just fucking with me now.”

“Though that’s one of my favorite things, it’s simply a matter of the softer white—dare I say oatmeal color—being a better choice than the other.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She put it on. It fit as if it had been tailored for her—which she assumed it had.

She didn’t argue—what was the point?—when he offered her a navy belt.

“You know, murdering bastards don’t care if I coordinate.”

She carried the jacket, the boots out into the bedroom.

“And yet it adds to the intimidation factor when you present a strong, competent appearance.”

“Maybe.” She hooked on her weapon harness, added her pocket and belt paraphernalia. “A solid left jab adds intimidation.”

“You’ll look well-dressed when you deliver one.” He nodded approval as she put on the jacket, the boots. “Strong and competent,” he repeated as he stepped over, kissed her. “That’s my cop. You take care of her today.”

“Don’t bitch if I get blood on the boots.”

“Have I ever?”

“No.” And because he hadn’t, she kissed him back. “We’re good,” she said as she walked out. “See you later.”

*

It definitely felt like the lion, Eve thought when she walked outside. The air had bite, and the wind held a low, throaty roar. She hopped in her waiting car grateful for the blast of the heater.

As she headed toward the gates then through them, she sent Peabody a voice text to report to the morgue.

The air blimps were back, blasting out their hype from a blissfully blue sky. No ice, no rain to dampen New York drivers’ competence at the wheel down to zero, no gritty gray piles of snow heaped at the curbs.

Maybe the lion really was getting ready to lie down.

Of course the lack of gray and gloom, rain and sleet didn’t stop the traffic heading downtown from tangling, clogging, or breaking noise-pollution laws with screaming horns.

But she’d take it.

The sun actually glared—enough that she dug into the center console, and found she was pleasantly surprised to locate a pair of sunshades.

As she bullied her way downtown, she thought over her impressions of Marcus Jones aka Slice.

A badass, no question, and one likely to end up dead on the street or spending a lot of quality time in a cage. But not completely stupid. Smart and badass enough to work his way up to a command post in the Bangers, and, more, to have outside business interests.

A landlord, a property owner with business partners. Sleazy ones, but non–gang member business partners.

So where had he gotten the scratch to buy into real estate?

Illegals, identity theft, the protection racket. Could be some skimming off the top—or bottom—of gang business involved. Or some side deals—a little blackmail maybe, some solo illegals action.

Considering, she sent a memo to a contact in Illegals. Detective Strong—solid cop—who might be able to fill in some blanks.

One thing stood out for her, and she replayed it in her head as she parked. Slice’s reaction when he heard Lyle Pickering had been murdered.

Shock—that had read genuine—and anger. Not the smirking smugness she might have expected, not the dismissive shrug. Maybe, just maybe, he possessed the acting skills that could earn him one of Nadine’s dickless gold guys. But why trot them out?

If he hadn’t arranged the hit on Pickering—and she had to give that a fifty-fifty at this point—who had?

And why?

She stuffed the shades in her coat pocket as she started down the white-tiled tunnel of the morgue. She smelled bad coffee, somebody’s breakfast burrito, chemical cleaner, and the death none of those other scents could quite smother.

As she reached Morris’s double doors, she heard the familiar clomp heading her way. Peabody sort of trotted down the tunnel. Not in her fuzzy-topped pink snow boots, but in the pink cowgirl boots Eve—in a moment of weakness—had allowed Roarke to persuade her made a fine souvenir gift for her partner.

Then there was the pink magic coat, another moment of weakness. The color, Eve thought, not the magic. Another scarf worked the pink into what Eve assumed stood as spring green.

At least the pants were a dignified black, even if she’d styled her hair into a short, yet jaunty, tail.

“Good morning!” Peabody all but sang it. “Isn’t that a beautiful sky out there? And we’re heading up into the sixties today.”

“I’m sure the dead guy on the slab in there shares your joy.”

“Aw.” Then Peabody did a couple of shoulder bounces. “He’s dead either way, but we get to hunt down his killer under blue skies.”

Hard to argue, Eve decided. And since it was, she pushed through the doors.