Creation in Death (In Death #25)(47)

It did feel good to be on his feet, to move, to step away from the work and the noise.

When he walked out, he noted cops breezing along, others in confabs in front of vending machines. A man, laughing wildly, was quick-marched along by a couple of burly uniforms. He didn’t rate even a glance from the others in the corridors.

The place smelled of very bad coffee, he thought, old sweat, and someone’s overly powerful and very cheap perfume.

Christ Jesus, he could’ve used a single gulp of fresh air.

He selected a jumbo fizzy for Callendar, then just stood, staring at his choices. There was absolutely nothing there he wanted. He bought a water, then took out his ’link and made a call.

When he turned, he saw Mira walking toward him. There, he decided, was the closest thing to fresh air he was likely to experience inside the cop maze of Central.

“I didn’t realize you were still here,” he said.

“I went home, couldn’t settle. I sent Dennis off to have dinner with our daughter, and came back to do some paperwork.” She glanced down at the enormous fizzy in his hand, smiled a little. “That doesn’t strike me as your usual choice of beverage.”

“It’s for one of the e-cops.”

“Ah. This is difficult for you.”

“Bloody tedious. I’d sooner sweat a year running an airjack than work a week as a cop.”

“That, yes, not at all the natural order for you. But I meant being used this way, and not knowing why, or by whom.”

“It’s maddening,” he admitted. “I was thinking a bit ago that I don’t know the bulk of these women we’re trying to contact. They’re just cogs in the wheel, aren’t they?”

“If that’s all they were to you, you wouldn’t be here. I could tell you that you’re responsible for none of what’s happened, or may happen to someone else. But you know that already. Feeling it, that’s a different matter.”

“It is,” he agreed. “That it is. What I want is a target, and there isn’t one. Yet.”

“You’re used to having the controls, and taking the actions, or certainly directing them.” She touched a sympathetic hand to his arm. “Which is exactly what you’re doing now, though it may seem otherwise. And that’s why I’m here, too. Hoping Eve will give me some job to do.”

“Want a fizzy?”

She laughed. “No, but thanks.”

They walked in together, then separated as Roarke went back to his station and Mira crossed to Eve.

“Give me an assignment,” Mira said. “Anything.”

“We’re contacting these women.” Eve explained the list, the approach, then gave Mira a list of names.

W earing black-tie, he settled into his box in the Grand Tier of the Metropolitan Opera House. He richly anticipated the performance of Rigoletto. His newest partner was secured and sleeping. As for Gia…well, he didn’t want to spoil his evening dwelling on that disappointment.

He would end that project tomorrow, and he would move on.

But tonight was for the music, the voices, the lights, and the drama. He knew he would take all of that home with him, relive it, reexperience it while he sipped a brandy in front of the fire.

Tomorrow, he would stop the clock.

But now, he would sit, tingling with pleasure, while the orchestra tuned up.

H e ordered a freaking deli, was all Eve could think when the food began to roll in. There were trays and trays of meats, bread, cheese, side salads, sweets. Added to it, she saw two huge bags—distinctly gold—of the coffee (real coffee) he produced.

She caught his eye, and hers was distinctly hairy. He only shook his head.

“No lip,” he said.

She pushed her way through the schoolyard rush to his station. “A word.”

She moved out of the room, and when he joined her the din from the war room was a clear indicator no one else objected to the possibility of corned beef on rye.

“Listen, I went along with the pizza parlor, but—”

“I have to do something,” he interrupted. “It’s little enough, but at least it’s something. It’s positive. It’s tangible.”

“Cops can spring for their own eats, and if I clear an order in, I’ve got a budget. There are procedures.”

He turned away from her, turned back again with frustration simply rolling off of him. “Christ Jesus, we’re buried in shagging procedures already. Why would you possibly care if I buy some f**king sandwiches?”

She stopped herself when she felt the teeth of her own temper in her throat. “Because it’s tangible.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes, rubbed hard. “It’s something to kick at.”

“Can’t you take an hour? Look at me. Look at me,” he repeated, laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re exhausted. You need an hour to stretch out, to turn off.”

“Not going to happen, and by the way, you’re not looking so perky yourself.”

“I feel like my brain’s been used as a punching bag. It’s not the time, or even the lack of sleep so much. It’s the unholy tedium.”

That made her frown—and put her back up again, a little. “You’ve done cop work before.”

“Bits and pieces it comes clear to me now, and that with some challenge and a clear end goal.”