Festive in Death (In Death #39)(113)

“Something like that. It may be harder for him to believe after another couple days behind bars. He keeps tripping up over things. Going to Ziegler’s apartment, paying Ziegler to nail his wife. We’ll keep piling up the stumbles until he falls flat.”

“There’s more than enough to go to trial.”

“Without a confession, the PA’s going to offer a deal. It’s not enough. Maybe I could swallow it on Ziegler, but not on Catiana. We’ll hit him again after Christmas. Go, grab McNab’s skinny ass, catch your shuttle, see your family.”

“Really? We have to write up the—”

“I’ve got it.”

“You always say that. I’ll—”

“I say it because I’m the boss. Get the hell out of here.”

“Thanks. Merry Christmas, Dallas. Don’t hit me.” Peabody flung her arms around Eve, squeezed. “I hope you like your gift half as much as I love my coat.”

She dashed off, presumably to get said coat.

In her office, Eve wrote up the report, copied it to Reo, the commander, Mira, Peabody.

She could work on the twists and turns of it, she thought, maybe straighten some of them out, talk to Quigley one more time.

Then she thought: The hell with it.

She was going home.

Maybe it dogged her on the drive, the insane drive full of rain and revelers. It dogged her enough for her to use her in-dash comp, to ramble some thoughts and speculations into it to sort through later.

But when she walked in the house, she ordered herself to leave it outside.

It wasn’t hard, not when she walked into warmth, light, laughter. Even if some of the laughter was Summerset’s.

They were in the parlor, Roarke sprawled in a chair, a glass of wine in his hand. Summerset sat with perfect posture across from him. She didn’t think Summerset could sprawl due to the stick up his ass.

Then she reminded herself it was Christmas and time for a moratorium on insults.

“What’s the joke?” she asked.

Roarke smiled. “Just a little stroll down memory lane.”

“How many pockets picked on the stroll?”

“Who’s counting?” He rose to kiss her, take her coat, which he tossed onto the arm of a sofa. “I’ll get you some wine.”

“I’ll take it. Party food.” She studied the tray of fancy finger food, chose one, popped it. She wasn’t sure what it was except good.

“Everything tied up?” Roarke asked when he handed her the wine.

“Tied, but not pulled tight and bowed up. Still, Copley’s getting stones in his Christmas stocking.”

“That’s coal.”

“What’s coal?”

“Never mind.” Roarke kissed her again, pulled her down into the chair with him.

Flustered—Summerset was right there—she started to push up. “We have lots of chairs.”

“We’re economizing.” Roarke held her fast. “Summerset was telling me about a Christmas during the Urbans when he and some medics fashioned a Christmas tree out of rebar and rags among other things.”

“It was quite festive, considering,” Summerset added. “We lit it with mini, bat-powered torches, and some enterprising soul stole a case of MREs from the enemy camp so we had a feast.”

“That would be you.”

Summerset lifted an eyebrow at Eve. “Perhaps it was. Making do can add to the sense of community.”

“My team hauled in a broken tree, a dented menorah, fake ears of corn.” She sipped her wine. “It cheered the place right up.”

She relaxed, let the evening wash the day away. Maybe the cop in her couldn’t approve of some of the tales they told—or the thievery often involved, but . . . hell, the statute of limitations made them all just memories.

“I’ve friends waiting,” Summerset said at length, and rose.

Eve bit back the automatic retort involving ghouls and corpses and wait time. Moratorium, she reminded herself.

“Happy Christmas to you both. It’s a happier one for me knowing this is a home fulfilling its promise and purpose.”

Glad she’d bitten back the barb, Eve cleared her throat. “It helps having someone who knows what he’s doing to handle the details.”

“Thank you. An unexpected gift. Good night.”

Roarke kissed Eve’s cheek after Summerset left. “Unexpected, and sweet.”

“I’m not sweet. It’s truth. I’m big on truth tonight.”

“Difficult pieces to your day?”

“Yeah, and then some. We’re not going to think about that because, hey, look. There are all these presents under the— Shit! Shit.” Now she did push up. “I need twenty minutes.”

“All right.”

“Go . . . do something,” she suggested and fled to wrap the gifts she’d neglected to wrap because there was plenty of time.

She hauled them down to the parlor, shoved them under the tree. Huffed out a breath, stepped back. And nearly yelped as she spotted Roarke lying on one of the sofas reading a book, the cat stretched out beside him.

“I didn’t see you.”

“So I deduced when you reached for your weapon.”

“I didn’t draw it. You’re reading a book.”