Connections in Death (In Death #48)(92)

“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 framed her face, kissed her.

“There’s one more. Maybe you should remember, you build 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 shoulder. “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.”