Devoted in Death (In Death #41)(36)

“Of legions.”

As the cat bellied over, eyes fixed on bacon, Roarke merely turned his head, raised an eyebrow. Galahad rolled onto his back, yawned hugely.

“Why does he think he’s going to get away with it?” Eve wondered. “He never does.”

“You can’t get the prize without reaching for it.”

Acknowledging the point, she reached for the prize of more coffee – and her communicator signaled.

“Hell.” She rose, went over to pick it up from the dresser. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the woman at 623 Bond, apartment 902. Whittiker, Kari has reported a possible missing person. Notification of possible missings flagged at your request.”

“Right. Who’s missing?”

“Campbell, Jayla, age twenty-four, mixed-race female. Last seen, 754 Carmine, apartment 615, at approximately twenty-four-thirty hours.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll take it. Dallas out.”

She frowned at the comm before setting it down again. “Probably nothing. Probably hooked up with somebody, but I had them flag any missings or possible missings over the age of sixteen. They’ve never gone for kids, that we know of.”

“Small blessings. Do you want me to go with you?”

“No point. I’ll take it solo, just meet up with Peabody at Central. The woman hasn’t been out of touch for even eight hours, so it’s probably nothing.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” She headed for the closet. “If this turns out to be one of theirs, we’ve got a hell of a lot more time than anybody’s had before. That’s a start.”

She came out with a navy-blue crew neck sweater, brown trousers and a brown jacket. And frowned again when he gave her the Galahad/bacon raised eyebrow.

“What? What’s wrong with this stuff?”

“Keep the sweater and trousers.” He rose, plucked the jacket away from her, and strolled into the closet.

“Why can’t I get it right?” she demanded. “I think I do get it right, but you like to make me think I don’t get it right.”

“It’s not altogether wrong. There’s just a better choice.”

She yanked on a support tank, muttering about better choices, wriggled into underwear, and was hooking the trousers when he came out with a jacket – a brown one, damn it.

But one that had a subtle needle-stripe of navy. The boots were navy, too, with a wider brown stripe up the sides to the ankle.

She knew she’d never seen them before.

“Waterproof, insulated,” he told her. “Your feet will be happier.”

“How many pairs of boots do I have in there?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You keep buying them, so you ought to know.” She tugged the sweater on, shoved at her hair when her head came out.

And he kissed her. “One of my small pleasures. Would you deny me?”

She took the boots, sat down. Felt the warmth, the solid support the minute her feet were inside. “Do you know how many pairs of boots I had before I met you?”

He only smiled as she rose, reached for her weapon harness – which told her he undoubtedly did.

“Two, and one pair didn’t really count as they were emergency use only because they were trashed. I still caught the bad guys.”

“You did. Now you get to catch them with more comfortable and stylish feet.”

She took the jacket from him, put it on and began to stow what she needed in various pockets. “You know I married you for sex and coffee, not boots.”

“Isn’t it nice, then, to have the bonus?”

This time she grabbed his face, kissed him. “Yeah. I’m going to grab a few things from the office here, then I’m in the field. See you tonight.”

“I’ll be here until about eleven, I’m thinking, if you’ve need of me. Meanwhile, take care of my cop.”

“Nearly top of my list,” she said and strode out.

“It’s not, no, not nearly top.” He glanced over, saw the cat had managed to take advantage of the distraction and snag the bit of bacon still on Eve’s plate. “And that’s why you continue to try, isn’t it? Now and again, you hoist the prize.”

Galahad ran his tongue over his whiskers, and belched.

By the time she got downstairs her coat lay draped over the newelpost with the Peabody scarf folded neatly over it, the Mr. Mira snowflake hat on that, and a fresh pair of gloves added to the mix.

She thought to stuff the hat in her pocket, thought of the thick snow, reconsidered. She’d just look at it like a good-luck charm, she decided. Until she managed to lose it like she lost every hat and every pair of gloves she’d ever owned. She wound the scarf on, and because dangling ends were – to her mind – an opponent’s opportunity to strangle in any hand-to-hand, tucked them inside the coat.

Pulling the gloves on, she walked out into the wall of snow where her car already sat running, heaters, she imagined, turned to blast.

Routine, she thought again. Such things had become routine. That didn’t mean she took them for granted.

She imagined Summerset had given a dry, ghoulish snicker as he set out the snowflake hat, and sniffed when he’d set out the surely doomed gloves. But he’d put them out.