Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(55)

“I understand that when you’re under you have to keep to your cover, to handle any curves without breaking.”

“I didn’t see you break your cover, just that ass**le’s nose.”

“I didn’t think, I just reacted. I understand during that kind of op you have to think at all times.”

“Peabody, even an LC has the right to protest if some jerk grabs her crotch in a public place. Here, have a drink.”

“He stuck his fingers in me.” Her hand did shake now as Eve pressed the glass into it. “We were just sitting there talking and all of a sudden I feel him jam his fingers in me. I know I was flirting, and I let him get a good look at my boobs so maybe I deserved — “

“Stop it.” Eve’s control wavered enough for her to put her hands on Peabody’s shoulders and shove her into a chair. “You didn’t deserve it, and it pisses me off to hear you think it. The son of a bitch didn’t have any right to touch you that way. Nobody has a right to push themselves on you that way.”

To hold you down, to tie your hands, to hammer himself into you when you’re begging him to stop. And it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The sickness rose up, all but gagging her, until she turned, laid her hands on her desk, and ordered herself to breathe.

“Not now,” she murmured. “For Christ’s sake.”

“Dallas?”

“It’s nothing.” But she had to stay as she was, hands braced, for another moment. “I’m sorry you were put in that kind of position. I knew something was off about him.”

Peabody lifted her glass with both hands. She could still feel the sudden sharp shock of Holloway’s fingers digging into her. “He passed their screening.”

“And now we know their screening isn’t as good as they claim.” She drew a deep breath and, steadier, turned back. “I want you to hit Piper with this in the morning, in person. Go in, demand to see her. A little hysteria wouldn’t hurt; you can threaten to sue or go to the press. I want her to get it full in the face. Let’s see what shakes. Can you do it?”

“Yeah.” Appalled that tears were perilously close, Peabody sniffed. “Yeah, the way I’m feeling, it’ll be easy.”

“Keep your communicator open. We can’t use anything you get on the inside, but I want you in constant contact. You can delay your report on tonight until tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to have Feeney take you home, okay?”

“Yeah.”

Eve waited a beat. “Peabody?”

“Sir?”

“Damn good punch. Next time, though, follow it through with a groin shot. You want to completely disable, not just annoy.”

Peabody let out a long sigh, then managed a half smile. “Yes, sir.”

Because she wanted the position of command, Eve sat behind her desk and waited for Roarke. She knew he’d walk Feeney and Peabody out, probably add a few comfort strokes for Peabody. Which would set the poor woman up for sweaty, erotic dreams if Eve knew her aide.

Better, she thought, than ugly nightmares about groping hands and helplessness.

And that, she realized, was part of her problem with this case. Sexual homicides, bondage, the gleeful cruelty in the name of love. Too close to home. Too close to the past she’d spent most of her life running from.

Now it was hitting her in the face. Each time she looked at a victim, she saw herself.

And she hated it.

“Get past it,” she ordered herself. “And find him.”

She looked over as Roarke walked in, kept her eyes on him as he crossed the room. He poured two glasses of the wine she’d gotten out for Peabody, set one on her desk, then took the other with him and sat in the chair facing her.

He sipped, took out one of his increasingly rare cigarettes, lighted it. “Well,” he said and left it at that.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?”

He drew in smoke, blew it out in a thin, fragrant stream. “At which point?”

“Don’t get cute with me, Roarke.”

“But I do it so well. Easy, Lieutenant.” He lifted his glass in salute as she growled low in her throat. “I didn’t infringe on your operation.”

“The point is you had no business being near the scene.”

“Pardon me, but I own the scene.” There was arrogance in his tone now, and a dare. “I often drop in on my properties. Keeps the employees on their toes.”

“Roarke — “

“Eve, this case is choking you. Do you think I can’t see it?” His composure cracked just enough to have him rising to pace.

Feeney was right, she thought fleetingly, the Irish came out when he was pissed.

“It disturbs your sleep — what little you allow yourself. It haunts your eyes. I know what you go through.” He turned back, temper alive in those wonderfully blue eyes. “Christ, I admire you. But you can’t expect me to stand back and pretend I don’t see, don’t understand, and not do whatever it is I can do to ease what’s inside you.”

“It isn’t about me. It can’t be about me. It’s about three dead people.”

“They haunt you, too.” He crossed to the desk and sat on the edge close to her. “That’s why you’re the best cop I’ve ever run up against. They’re not names and numbers to you. They’re people. And you have the gift — or curse — of being able to imagine too well what they saw and felt and prayed for in those last minutes of life. I won’t back away.”