Desperation in Death (In Death #55)(19)

“It’s not about the damn ties. Don’t make me think about the damn ties.”

“They brighten up the bullpen.”

“They burn the air in the bullpen. However, I’ve put you up for the sergeant’s exam, and I’m asking you to seriously consider taking it.”

He looked pained—like the cat had given him a quick, sharp swipe. “Aw now, Loo, why’d you do that?”

“I’m going to tell you why. Your end first. You’re the highest-ranking detective in my bullpen, and with the longest tour of duty.”

“Just because you figure I’m old—”

“Shut up. It’s about experience, instincts, skill, and knowledge. You have all of what’s needed to make DS. If you’re thinking you’d outrank your partner, I outrank mine by a lot more. It doesn’t matter.”

Studying him, she drank some coffee. “It’s the rhythm,” she continued, “the relationship, and the trust. You know that. And you’re not going to stand there and bullshit me saying you don’t need the boost in pay.”

He shuffled his feet. “More money’s always a plus. You’d have gotten a nice boost if you’d taken the captaincy when they offered it. I hear things,” he added. “I know Whitney offered it—and it was overdue—and you turned it down. I figure it’s because they’d boot you upstairs and take you off the streets.”

“You figure correctly, which is another reason I want you to take the exam. I’m a street cop. So are you. I don’t intend to change that. I run this division, and I’d be stupid to take my most experienced detective away from what he does best just because he makes detective sergeant. You’d do what you do now, but with a boost in pay and rank. Don’t you be stupid.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “The administrative shit.”

“Yeah, and that’s my end of why we’re having this conversation. Unless you’re out in the field, you already handle things when I’m jammed. I’ve got a family coming in shortly—I’ve spent most of today away from my desk on their daughter’s murder.”

“The kid in Battery Park. Fucking fuck does that to a kid needs to fucking rot in a cage for a couple lifetimes.”

Since she agreed, wholeheartedly, she nodded again.

“I hope to make that happen. I have more room to because I know damn well I can come in here and ask you to catch me up. You can and will. I can ask you to take charge if I need to, and the rest of the bullpen respects that, because—despite the damn ties—they respect you. And goddamn it, I’d fucking love to dump some of the paperwork on you now and then.”

He smiled at that. “You’re the boss. You could do that anyway.”

“You make sergeant, and I can dump some of it now and then without feeling guilty about it. So that’s my end, but it circles around to this. You’ve earned it.”

He stared down into his coffee. “I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to my other boss—the one at home—and we’ll think about it.”

“Good enough. Now take your electrified cat and get out of my office. I don’t have much time.”

He drained his coffee first. “I appreciate you putting me up for it. I appreciate that.”

The minute he walked out, she switched gears, updated board and book, wrote everything up with a copy to Mira. She considered more coffee—boots up, time to think—and heard Peabody coming.

“Heard back from the caseworker,” Peabody told her. “Pru Truman. She’s coming in. It’ll take some time, but she’s coming. I got the feeling her supervisor ordered her to come.”

“If the supervisor’s not an idiot, that’s a good call. Her charge is missing, and has been, yet no report on that? Custodial parent’s arrested—which would’ve happened before if the caseworker paid attention. Yeah, she’s under the hammer on this, and so’s her department.”

A few hours, she thought. She’d have the victim’s family, then Dorian Gregg’s caseworker, and the day was bleeding away. She needed a consult with Mira, and had to find a way to squeeze it in.

“We’ll keep the conference room,” Eve decided. “I ought to put her in the box, but we’ll keep it cool and professional. In the meantime—”

She broke off when Roarke appeared in the doorway.

You never heard him—those (former) cat burglar moves. So seeing him could come as a jolt to the heart.

Those wild blue eyes, that mane of black hair, that incredible face, and a mouth sculpted by artisan angels that curved for her in a smile that could turn the brain to mush.

He said, “Lieutenant,” and the whisper of Ireland made her want to nibble on that excellent mouth. “I’m interrupting.” Then he smiled at Peabody, gave the flip of her hair—the hair she insisted on streaking with red—a flick of his finger. “I’m hoping to get to the house and see the current progress.”

“The kitchen cabinets.” Peabody spoke as if she spoke of gods. “They’re just so mag. Ours and Mavis and Leonardo’s. I can’t believe it’s really happening. Sorry,” she said to Eve. “But wait till you see. I’ll go extend the conference room.”

“You’re pressed for time,” Roarke observed as Peabody hurried out. “I expect this is new.” He stepped to the board. “Children? Ah, God, she can’t be much more than twelve.”