Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(52)

“Why?”

“Why? Why? What if it bombs?”

“Why would it bomb?”

“Well, Jesus, because it sucks?”

“It doesn’t suck. You made me read it. I mean, you asked me to read it,” Eve amended, on the chance there was a friendship rule about “made me.”

“For accuracy since the Icove case was mine. Which I did. It didn’t suck, and it was accurate.”

“Great, it doesn’t suck.” Nadine tossed up her hands. “Fabulous. I wonder if I can get them to put that as a PR quote. ‘Lieutenant Eve Dallas says this book doesn’t suck.’”

“Do you need written permission?”

Nadine plopped down in a chair.

“Oh, make yourself the f**k at home. Can’t you see I’m working on a murder here?”

“Can’t you see I’m having a breakdown here?” Nadine snapped back, and gave Eve pause.

“Okay.” Because it was rare to see Nadine so jittery, Eve rose and went to the AutoChef. “You can have coffee, pull yourself together, then you’re out of here.”

“Oh, thanks a bunch.”

“Listen, I told you it was good when you made me”—shit—“asked me to read it.” Eve pushed the coffee at Nadine. “The reviews say it’s good.”

Nadine blinked. “You’ve read the reviews?”

“I maybe saw one or two, somewhere. The point is, you did a solid job. More than, if it matters what I think. You made it human and important, and you didn’t sentimentalize it—if that’s a word. You got it accurate, and that matters, but you made it real. And that’s probably just as important. So stop being a big baby about it.”

“I knew I’d feel better if I came by here. You bitch.” She grabbed Eve’s hand. “I’d really like you to be there tomorrow night, even if you can’t stay long. I might need you to kick me in the ass again.”

“What’re friends for? Look, I’ll try. I’ll plan on it, but if something breaks on this case—”

“Remember who you’re talking to. I know the priorities of the job. Anyway, if you’re roasting the balls of whoever did this instead of kicking my ass and drinking champagne, I’ll be fine with it.” She sat another minute, finishing the coffee. “Okay. All right. That should hold me for a couple hours.”

“Go bother somebody else if you need a booster shot.”

“I do have other friends, you know.” She glanced at the board again. “Go get them, Dallas.”

Eve sat again. After a moment, she opened the box and took out a cookie. She studied it a moment, then took a bite, sighed at the rush of sugar.

And she thought about friendships.

11

Still thinking of friendships, she left her office and stepped into the bullpen. There cops manned desks and cubes, worked the ’links and comps, followed up leads, pecked away at the never-ending paperwork. The familiar sounds, beeps, clatters, voices, Reineke’s off-key whistle, crisscrossed in the air.

There were friendships here, she knew, born out of the badge and nurtured in some cases by other shared interests or copacetic personalities. Competition, too, but she deemed that a good thing, a healthy and productive element of any group. The last thing she wanted was a bunch of easygoing, complacent cops.

Friction, an inevitable by-product, rubbed on personalities who worked long hours, and lived with the stress of the job. Only droids operated without friction, and she preferred men and women who sweated and bled and occasionally pissed each other off.

Her division ran smooth not only because she demanded it, but because—she felt—she trusted her people and didn’t hover over every case or every step of an investigation.

They lived with murder. They didn’t need her to remind them what she, the department, the victim expected of them.

Some were partners, and that ran deeper even than friendship, could be a more intense and more intimate relationship than lovers. A partner had your back, shared the risks, the work, spoke the language, knew your thoughts, kept your secrets.

If you were a cop, a partner trusted his life to you, and you did the same with yours. Every day, every minute.

Trust, she thought, was the foundation and the safety net of any partnership.

She started out—a second trip up to EDD in one day might implode her nervous system, but it had to be done. Before she reached the door, the whistling Reineke hailed her.

“Yo, LT.” He hauled himself up and over. “We’re on that pizza murder.”

“Mugging off Greene.” Just because she didn’t hover didn’t mean her detectives’ caseloads were off her radar.

“Yeah. Guy goes to pick up a veggie pie and gets coshed with a pipe wrench. Mugger took his wallet, and the pie.”

“No point wasting a pie.”

“You got that. Wife’s at home, see, waiting for him to bring it. Gets worried after he’s gone, like, an hour. Tries his ’link, but he can’t answer being dead and all. Tries the pizza joint, but they’re closed by that time. Tries to tag him a couple more times, and finally calls it in. Respondings found him three blocks away, tossed down some steps.”

“Okay. Where are you on it?”

“No prints on the pipe, no wits. He took the hit right in the face, then a second for luck that opened his head up. Take the wallet, kick him down the steps for good measure, and walk away. But how come you take a twenty-dollar pie and leave a seventy-five-dollar pipe wrench? And how come dead husband’s out picking up the pie that time of night when they deliver? It smells.”