Secrets in Death (In Death #45)(4)

Amused now—who knew that was all it took to get under DeWinter’s skin?—Eve plowed on. “And you—what’s the word—swirl around in your coordinated outfits.”

“You’re wearing six-thousand-dollar boots.”

“I am not.” Appalled, Eve stuck one foot out, stared. “God.” She probably was. “The difference is, I wouldn’t have a clue how much your boots cost, only that nobody with any sense would wear them when they’re going to stand on them for hours at a time.”

DeWinter’s face, her voice, registered absolute astonishment. “Your problem with me is how I dress?”

“It’s systemic,” Eve decided on the spot.

“Systemic, my ass.” DeWinter wagged a straw at Eve before crunching it. “You’ve formed an opinion of me on surface appearance, and you’re a better cop than that.”

“You’re too quick to preen in front of the cameras.”

“I don’t preen. And that’s rich coming from you when one of your closest friends is a reporter—and you get plenty of screen time.”

“When it’s advantageous to an investigation.”

“She wrote a damn book about you. And the vid adapted from it is up for Oscars.”

“No, she wrote a damn book about the Icoves.” Eve held up a hand. “You stole a dog.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.”

“You stole a dog,” Eve continued, “because it was being neglected and abused, and nobody else would do anything about it. You kept the dog. I believe in serve and protect, and when somebody—even a dog—is being abused, somebody needs to stop it. You did. That’s a point for you.”

“My dog’s a point for me?”

“Yeah, and maybe Morris has shifted to the other side because I know when somebody’s bullshitting me, and you’re not. And you’ve been good for him. When I look at it, at him, I’m not going to say otherwise. He’s steadier, and maybe part of that’s having you to hang with.”

“I care about him.”

“I got that. Doesn’t make you less of a snob or a media hound, but I got that.”

On a huff, DeWinter sat back again. “I swear to God, here and now, I don’t know why I half like you.”

“Back at you. Since I figure half is good enough, that should do it. I need to get home.”

“You haven’t finished your wine—” DeWinter began.

They both looked over at the sound of glass striking the floor. DeWinter looked away again, picked up her drink.

“No point in wasting—”

It’s as far as she got before Eve surged up.

Larinda Mars no longer sat in a booth, nor did her companion. Instead she walked like a drunk over the polished floor, her shoes crunching on broken glass from a tray she’d knocked over when she’d run straight into a waiter.

Her eyes, both dazed and dull, stared straight ahead as she weaved and shuffled. And blood soaked the right sleeve of her pink skin suit, dripping a thin river onto the floor.

Eve rushed for her, shoving people aside. Someone started to scream.

Mars’s eyes rolled back as she pitched forward. Eve caught her before she hit the floor, so they went down together.

“DeWinter!” Eve snapped as she fought to pull the tight sleeve away and find the source of the blood.

“I’m here, I’m here. Put pressure on it.”

“Where?”

DeWinter dropped down, pressed both hands on Mars’s right biceps. “We need to cut the sleeve away. I need something to make a tourniquet. She’s lost a lot of blood.”

Jumping up, Eve dug in her pocket for a penknife. “Use this. You!” She grabbed one of the waitstaff. “Nobody leaves.”

“I can’t—”

“Lock the damn door.” As she spoke, she dragged off her belt. “You!” She pointed at one of the bartenders as people panicked, scrambled. “Call nine-one-one. Now. We need medicals.”

“I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor.” A man fought his way through the crowd.

“So am I,” DeWinter said as she cut away the sleeve. “I don’t have a pulse.”

“Brachial artery.” The man straddled Mars, began to pump her chest. “Get that tourniquet on. If we can keep her going … Tell the MTs we need blood. O-neg. She needs a transfusion.”

Eve left the victim to the medicals, dealt with the crowd.

“Everybody stay where you are!” She whipped out her badge, held it up. “I’m a cop. Take a seat, give the doctors room.” She stepped over as a man in a cashmere topcoat tried to shove the waitress away from the door. “I said take a seat.”

“You have no authority to—”

She shoved her jacket back to reveal her weapon. “Wanna bet?”

He gave her a look of intense dislike, but stalked over to the bar, stood.

“Nobody out,” Eve repeated. “Nobody in but cops and medicals.”

“We won’t need the medicals.” DeWinter, her hands wet with blood, sat back on her heels. “She’s gone.”

No DBs? Eve thought as she took out her ’link to call it in.

No, it didn’t last.