Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(55)

“You got that squared. Our Bellarina needs her mommy and her daddy. I’ve got that gig in London at the end of next week. We were kind of thinking about adding on some hoot time.”

“Hoot time?”

“Time for having a hoot. Fun. Vacation.”

“Why don’t you do that? Go have a hoot. Let me know one way or the other.”

“Hell, I’m packed five minutes from now. Do you really think somebody could try to hurt us?”

“Probably not. But I don’t take chances with you guys.”

“Aw, I love you, too.”

“Why is that? Why do we love each other?”

“Because we are what we are, and we’re both okay with it.”

And that, Eve thought as she drove through the gates, pretty well nailed it.

When she opened the car door, the heat knocked her back on her heels. And when she had to brace a hand on the door because her head spun, she had to admit sleep had to be the first order of business. She steadied herself and walked inside to the blissful, quiet cool.

“Have you been brawling again?” Summerset wondered. “Or is this some kind of fashion statement?”

She remembered the bandage on her arm, and the lack of a jacket to conceal it. “Neither. I lost a bet and had to get your name tattooed on my arm. So I carved it out with a penknife.”

A little lame, she thought as she went upstairs, but the best she could do when her brain wanted so desperately to check out.

Two hours, she told herself. Two hours down to recharge, then she’d go at the whole thing fresh.

In the bedroom she didn’t bother to remove her weapon and harness but simply dropped facedown on the bed. She barely felt the thump on her ass when the cat landed there.

Forty minutes later, Roarke came home.

“The lieutenant’s sporting a bandage on her left forearm,” Summerset reported. “It doesn’t look serious.”

“Ah, well.”

“You need sleep.”

“I do. Block the ’links for the next couple of hours, would you? Unless it’s an emergency or her dispatch.”

“Already done.”

Roarke went up, found her crossways and facedown on the bed, a position that signaled exhaustion. From his perch on Eve’s ass, Galahad blinked.

“I’ll take over now if you’ve something else to do,” Roarke murmured. He peeled off his suit coat, his tie, his shoes. When he pulled Eve’s boots off, she didn’t budge an inch.

Much as he had that morning in her office, he lay down beside her, closed his eyes, and slept.

12

SHE HUNTED. WITH A BAYONET SHEATHED AT her side, a crossbow in her hands, she stalked her prey through richly appointed rooms, glittering light, velvet shadows.

The fragrance was drowning floral, so thick it felt like breathing blossoms. On the ornately carved desk she’d seen in Moriarity’s office, two men—hooded, stripped to the waist—turned a screaming woman on the rack.

“Can’t help you,” Eve told her. “You’re not real, anyway.”

The woman paused mid-scream to smile wearily. “Who is? What is?”

“I haven’t got time for philosophy. They’ve already picked out the next.”

“The next what? The next who? The next what?”

“Do you mind,” one of the hooded men said. “You’re interrupting the program.”

“Fine. Carry on.”

She moved into the next room, sweeping her weapon, right, left. In the sleek black-and-white drama, the bold red on the floor was blood, and on the blood floated a chauffeur’s cap.

Leaving signs, she thought. They liked leaving clues. Liked thinking they were too smart, too insulated, too rich to be caught.

She stood in the center of the room, studying it. What was missing? What had she missed?

She stepped through and into her own office at Central where her murder board dominated.

Was it there? Already there?

Limo driver, crossbow, transpo center.

LC, bayonet, amusement park.

Who, what, where.

But why?

She eased out the door, turned toward the bullpen.

But rather than the cops, the desks, the smell of bad coffee, she stepped into what she imagined to be a room in some exclusive club. Big leather chairs, a simmering fire though the heat was fierce, deep colors, paintings on the wall of high-class hunting.

Hounds and horses.

The two men sat, swirling amber-colored brandy in balloon glasses. Long, slim cigars smoked on the silver tray on the table between them.

They turned to her as one, and their smiles were sneers.

“I’m sorry, you’re not a member. You’ll have to leave or face the consequences. It takes more than money to belong.”

“I know what you did, and I think I know how. But I don’t know why.”

“We don’t answer to you and your kind.”

It was Dudley who lifted the gun, an enormous silver weapon.

She heard the snap when it cocked.

She jerked, and her eyes flew open. She swore she heard—even smelled—the explosion of gunfire.

“Shh.” Beside her Roarke pulled her closer, wrapped her in. “Just a dream.”

“What’s it telling me?” she mumbled. When she tried to shift, an annoyed Galahad dug his claws into her butt. “Ow, damn it.” She maneuvered him off, and ended up face-to-face with Roarke. “Hi.”