Creation in Death (In Death #25)(72)

She all but sighed with relief when Peabody turned into the garage at Central. She wanted to ice down the damn leg. “New York plate was all I could make. Just a quick glimpse on the plate color. Too much distance, too much snow to get any number.”

“You need to take standard precautions with that injury.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“One of them should be an hour in the crib. You’re wiped out.”

“I hate the crib.” Eve climbed, somewhat achily, out of the car. “If I need to shut down for an hour, I’ll use the floor in my office. It works for me. Do me a favor,” she added as she hobbled to the elevator. “Set up a meet with Whitney and Mira, asap. I’m going to go steal some disinfectant and a bandage from the infirmary.”

“You don’t have to steal it. They’ll fix you up.”

“I don’t want them to fix me up,” Eve grumbled. “I hate them. I’ll just palm what I need and take care of it myself.”

E ve swung through the infirmary, committed—if you wanted to be absolutely technical—some basic shoplifting by pocketing what she needed without logging it in.

But if she logged it, they’d insist on seeing the wound. If she showed them the wound, they’d start badgering her to have it treated there. She just needed to clean it up, slap a bandage on it. And, okay, maybe take a blocker.

When she stepped into her office, Roarke was already there.

“Let’s see it.”

“See what?”

He merely lifted his eyebrows.

“Damn Peabody. She’s got a mouth on her.” Eve pulled the lifted items out of her coat pocket, tossed them on her desk. She hung her coat on the rack, then sat and propped her injured leg on the desk.

Roarke studied the wound when she tugged up her pants leg, and hissed a little. “Bit nasty, that.”

“I’ve had worse than a nip from some half-assed sissy street thief.”

“True enough.” Still, he cleaned, treated, and bandaged the bite himself. Then leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to the neat white square. “There, that’s better.”

“He tailed me.”

Roarke straightened now, and the quiet amusement in his eyes faded. “We’re not talking about the half-assed sissy street thief.”

“I made him—black sedan, couldn’t get the plate, but I think we can pop on the model, maybe the year. I might’ve been able to get more, maybe even have managed to box him in if that ass**le hadn’t run out in the street. I had to control the vehicle or else crash into the limo that bumped the ass**le and crashed into an ATV in front of me. A few seconds, and he was gone.”

“He wouldn’t know you made him.”

“Don’t see how, no. He’s just cautious. There’s trouble up ahead, so he slithers off and avoids it. If he’s been out and about shadowing me, he might not have seen the media reports with his face on them. But he will.”

She shifted to try to ease the throbbing in her calf. “Be a pal, would you? Get me coffee.”

He went to her AutoChef. “And your next step?”

“Meet with Whitney and Mira to discuss the possibilities of baiting a trap. Check in with the team members, input any new data. At some point I need an hour or two just to think. I need to work it through in my head, play with it.”

He brought the coffee back to her. “As a party with vested interest in the bait, I’d like to attend this meeting.”

“Just can’t get enough of meetings, can you? You’ll have to leave your buttons outside the room.”

“Sorry?”

“If your buttons aren’t there, they can’t be pushed.” She let her head lean back for just a minute, let the coffee work its magic on her system. “And to remember I’m not just bait, I’m an experienced and kick-ass cop.”

“With a sissy bite on her tightly muscled calf.”

“Well…yeah.”

“Dallas.” Peabody stepped to the door. “How’s the leg?”

“Fine, and as of now, removed from all discussion.”

“The commander and Dr. Mira will take us in the commander’s office in twenty.”

“Good enough.”

“Meanwhile, Officer Gil Newkirk’s come in. He’s in the war room.”

“On my way.”

Gil Newkirk wore his uniform well. He had a rock-solid look about him, indicating to Eve he knew how to handle himself on the street. His face bore the same sort of toughness, what she supposed Feeney might call “seasoning.”

She’d met him a handful of times over the years, and considered him to be sensible and straightforward.

“Officer Newkirk.”

“Lieutenant.” He took the hand she offered with a firm, brisk shake. “Looks like you’ve got an efficient setup here.”

“It’s a good team. We’re narrowing the field.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and wish I’d brought you something substantial. If you’ve got some time…”

“Have a seat.” She gestured, joined him at the conference table.

“You’ve got his face.” Newkirk nodded to the sketch pinned to one of the four case boards. “I’ve been studying that face, trying to put it in front of me nine years back during one of the knock-on-doors. There were so many of them, Lieutenant. That face isn’t coming up for me.”