Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(108)

“I really need to get in there, Dallas. They won’t even let our choppers do flyovers.”

“I’m not in charge of that. But I’ll give you a one-on-one here and now with as much detail as I’m able.”

“I’ll take it.” Nadine angled her head, narrowed her foxy eyes. “Did you manage to grab eight hours of sleep somewhere? You look a hell of a lot fresher than you did this afternoon.”

“Kicking ass is better than sleep.”

“Apparently.” Nadine signaled to her camera.

Two hours later, on a morning that dawned with a steady spring shower, Eve sat at her desk. She pumped coffee as she worked on her strategy.

Roarke, who’d stated—firmly—he was in for the duration, had gone off to find some quiet place to start his wheels and deals.

She’d told her detectives to grab sleep, a shower, a change of clothes, food, whatever they needed. And to report back to the bullpen by zero-nine hundred.

More hot irons to handle, she thought.

Twenty minutes before deadline, she decided to shower off the night herself and start fresh.

As she started out, Shelby started in—with a garment bag.

“Why aren’t you at home sleeping?” Eve asked.

“Tried, sir. Really couldn’t. I’m hoping you’ll clear me to hang in Observation during some of the interviews.”

“You earned it.”

“Thanks. A Mr. Summerset just brought this in for you. He said Roarke asked him to bring you a change of clothes.”

Eve studied the bag. “Sure he did.”

She knew the bony cadaver went into her closet, but she didn’t need to be reminded before interview.

“Lieutenant? I want to say my ambitions don’t aim toward a gold shield. I like the uniform.”

“I know.”

“Oh. Well, good. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”

“Shelby, you’re a good cop, and an asset to this division. You keep at it, you continue to work your way up to being as good, as solid, as exemplary as Officer Carmichael, you’ll be an even bigger asset to this division and the department.”

“That’s exactly where my ambitions aim, Lieutenant.”

Eve took the garment bag, headed into the locker room and the narrow closet with the piss-trickle of almost hot water that served as one of the showers.

Despite the facilities, she did feel fresher.

And when she opened the garment bag, she put aside the fact that Summerset’s fingers had been on her clothes—including her underwear—and let herself bask in the other fact.

She saw exactly what Roarke had intended when he’d ordered this outfit.

Black pants, straight line, and short black boots. A white shirt as crisp as an Alpine breeze. Black vest, not a jacket, so her weapon remained visible. Leather vest, no frills, all business.

Dressed, she stepped out and saw Peabody in the process of removing her pink coat.

No pink otherwise—not even her usual boots—but a dark, murderous red shirt with a thin gray-and-red scarf used as a kind of tie. Gray pants, scarred black boots.

No jacket, Eve noted. Weapon visible.

“Got two hours in my own bed,” she told Eve. “McNab bunked up in EDD. They’re really slammed. I hit the espresso—just a hit. I learned my lesson there. Feel ready.”

“Good, because we’re having our interviewees brought up to the boxes at nine hundred.” She checked the time. “So they’ve got ten minutes.”

She turned because she recognized the familiar click of heels coming toward the bullpen.

“All the interviews will be on record,” she said as Mira came in. “You didn’t have to come in this early to observe.”

“Eve, I went to medical school, and I raised children. It’s hardly the first time I’ve worked on little sleep. I had an opportunity to speak with several of the women, and more than a few men, who’d been held one way or the other. I’m here because I need to be.”

“Understood. Appreciated. Peabody, would you see that Observation is stocked with decent coffee and the tea Dr. Mira likes?”

“Oh, and that is appreciated.”

Jenkinson and Reineke came in next. Jenkinson’s tie, a flaming orange, had little red devils all over it. The kind with horns and pointy-end tails and snarling grins.

“Really? Today?”

“Especially today, Loo, because if there’s a hell, those bastards are going to fry in it. But first we’re gonna lock them in cages.”

“Did you read our report?” Reineke asked. “One of the kids we got out was locked in his room in one of the apartments, restrained to the bed. Gay kid, and he said they were going to send him to the island for Realignment today if we hadn’t come. Fifteen years old. His own parents, Dallas. His own mom and dad.”

“I read it. Let me see the socks.”

That made him grin as he hiked up his pants leg. Black socks with one red pitchfork-wielding devil on the side.

“Okay, just—For fuck’s sake, Santiago, you’re on medical leave.”

“No, sir.” Face mutinous, left arm in a sling, he stood his ground.

“There’s no talking to him,” Carmichael told her.

“Then I won’t waste my breath.”