Gated Prey (Eve Ronin #3)(60)

Eve caught up with Duncan at the door to the squad room.

“I can fight my own battles,” she said. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“You didn’t have to tell him he took a cheap shot, which I deserved, by the way.”

“No, you didn’t. I just got lucky.”

Duncan leaned against the wall and looked at her. “It isn’t luck, Eve. It’s instinct. You’re a natural at this. What you haven’t learned yet is how to do it without making enemies.”

Eve tilted her head toward Shaw’s office. “Like what you just did?”

“I’m at the end of my career, you’re at the beginning. If you want to make it as long as I have, you have to stop antagonizing everybody you work with and take better care of yourself. You look terrible.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“No, I mean it. You need to get some sleep.”

“I will,” she said. “Right after we file our reports.”

They went to their desks, divvied up the paperwork, and got to it.

An hour later, ten minutes past Shaw’s hastily issued deadline, Eve was still finishing up her work when a uniformed deputy approached her.

“Eve Ronin?” he asked.

She looked up at him. He was squat, in his thirties, with a buzz cut and a weight lifter’s body. His name tag read PRICE. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

Price handed her an envelope. “This is for you.”

She took it. “What is it?”

“Consider yourself served,” he said, gave her the finger, and walked out.

Eve opened the envelope and pulled out the papers inside. It was a wrongful death lawsuit, filed by the widow of the deputy who’d killed himself during the course of her last investigation, the one prior to the home invasion case.

She’d been expecting the lawsuit, but even so, it still felt like a punch in the stomach. Duncan glanced over at her.

“Bad news?”

“I’m being sued for $10 million.”

“Is that all?” he said. “I figured it would be at least twice as much. Is the department named in the suit as well?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then you’re golden,” Duncan said. “They’re insured for stuff like this. The insurance company will settle for a million and you won’t have to do a thing.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Are you done with your paperwork?”

“Just about,” she said.

“That’s good enough,” he said, standing up. “You’re done. I’m taking you back to your hotel. I don’t want to see you until at least noon tomorrow. Better yet, take a sick day.”

“You’re going to miss the Hilton’s breakfast buffet?”

“That should tell you how concerned I am.”

They went outside, got into Duncan’s Buick, and drove out. They were almost to the Hilton, and Eve was already half-asleep, her head against the window, when she remembered something important. She sat up straight.

“Wait, you can’t take me home yet.”

“Why not?”

“We need to talk to Mr. Alvarez. Face-to-face. He can’t learn about what happened to his wife and unborn child from the evening news . . . or in a phone call.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I’ll handle it before I go home.”

“I’ll go with you. You shouldn’t have to do something like this alone.”

“It’s better if I do, especially with you like this,” Duncan said. “You don’t have the strength left, emotionally or otherwise, to deal with it.”

Eve knew he was right, but even so, she felt like she was neglecting her duty. But she was also relieved. Because the truth was, she was terrified to face Alejandro Alvarez and tell him the horror story that would destroy his life. How could she do it without breaking down herself? She needed to learn that skill. But it wouldn’t be tonight.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Duncan said. “You solved the case. Let me close it.”

She started to get out of the car, but then stopped. “How do you tell somebody something like this and not fall apart yourself?”

“I’ve got a calloused heart,” he said.





CHAPTER TWENTY


Eve slept for fourteen hours, awaking at noon. But instead of feeling refreshed, she felt like she’d been beaten. She took a long, hot shower, got dressed in casual off-duty clothes—a V-neck, short-sleeve top and jeans and her off-duty weapon, a Glock 42, in an underwire bra holster—and walked over to the Commons for lunch.

She went to the Corner Bakery, ordered a club panini and a Diet Coke, and carried her number to the back table facing the door. Someone had left the Los Angeles Times behind, so she took a look at the front page.

Garvey’s arrest of Justin Marriott was the lead story, apparently judged by the editors to be of equal, or more, importance to Los Angelenos than a mass shooting in Milwaukee or a tsunami in Thailand. The story about Anna McCaig and the fetal abduction was buried in the California section, but Eve suspected that was only because the news came in shortly before the paper’s deadline. Neither she nor Duncan was mentioned by name, which she was glad to see. There would probably be a larger follow-up in tomorrow’s paper with all the sordid details. She wondered if McCaig’s husband had heard about his wife’s crime yet in Berlin. If she were him, she’d stay there for a while and put the house on the market, though it would be a hard sale to make.