Judgment in Death (In Death #11)(105)

Damn good, she decided, when within thirty seconds a large man in a black suit strolled up to the table in question, confiscated the drink, and lifted the offender out of his chair in one smooth move.

"Slick and quiet," Feeney commented. "That's the way to keep things steady."

"I don't like it. I don't like the whole deal. Too much can go wrong."

"Nothing's going to go wrong. You just got the heebie-jeebies."

"The what?"

"Ants in your pants, nervous twitters."

"Damn it, Feeney, I've never twittered in my life."

"Doing it now," he said solemnly. But there was a chuckle in his tone. "The man can handle himself, Dallas. Nobody better."

"Yeah, maybe that's what worries me." On-screen, she picked Roarke out easily, watched him move through the crowd as if his biggest concern was the cut of his suit.

And she was two floors up, and breaking a sweat.

Because she was two floors up, she admitted. She'd have felt better, been cooler, if she'd been down in the action. Like Peabody, she thought, idling at the bar in plain clothes.

"Peabody, you read?"

At the bar, Peabody gave a barely perceptible nod as Eve's voice hummed in her ear.

"That better be a soft drink you're guzzling."

Then came the smirk.

For some reason, it made Eve feel better.

The buzzer sounded at the door. With one hand on her weapon, she stepped over, checked the security screen. Disengaging locks, she opened it.

"Martinez, you're away from your station."

"There's time. Can I have a minute? I didn't have the chance to say it before," she continued, lowering her voice. "And if things go the way we want, there won't be time after. I want to thank you for bringing me in on this."

"You earned it."

"You better believe it. But you didn't have to bring me in. You ever need a favor from me or my squad, you'll have it."

"Acknowledged and appreciated."

"Thought you'd like to know the word on Roth, too. She's getting slapped on record. They're sending in an evaluator, and she's going to be required to submit to counseling. She gets a six-month probationary period before they decide if she keeps her command."

It was a hard knock for a woman like Roth, Eve mused. But... "Could've been a lot worse for her."

"Yeah. Some were betting she'd just toss in and resign. But no way. She'll tough it out."

"Yeah, I think she will. Now, if we've finished our gossip session, get back to your station."

Martinez flashed a grin. "Yes, sir."

Eve secured the door again and returned to the screens. She started to sit, to settle, then tensed. "God. Why didn't I think of it? That's Mavis. Mavis and Leonardo." Going with the gut, or the heart, she switched to Roarke's channel.

"Mavis just walked in. She and Leonardo are moving through section five. Get rid of them. Make them go home."

"I'll take care of them," was his murmured response, and all she could do was stand by helplessly.

"Roarke!" Mavis gave a squeal of delight, and launched herself, decked out in swirl of blue feathers over a gold body paint job, into his arms. "The place is mag! Even more mag than before! Where's Dallas? Isn't she here for the big night?"

"She's working."

"Oh, bum-time. Well, we'll keep you company. Listen to that band! They're incendiary. Can't wait to dance."

"You'll have a better view from the second level."

"Lots of action down here."

"There, too." He'd never get them out, not without an explanation. But he could calm Eve's nerves by moving them as far away as possible. "Rue?" He signaled his manager. "These are friends of mine. Get them the best table on the second level. Their tab's on the house."

"That's gracious of you." Leonardo clasped hands with Mavis. "And unnecessary."

"It's my pleasure. I've got some business to see to shortly. When it's done, I'll come up and join you for a drink."

"Aw, you're so sweet. We'll see you upstairs later."

When he was sure they were on their way, Roarke strolled over to McNab. "Keep an eye on them. Make certain they're tucked up until this is played out."

"Don't worry," he replied.

Onstage, the dancers stripped and shimmied and managed to look as though they were enjoying the exercise. While the band pounded out a brutal drum beat, a thin and atmospheric blue mist crawled over the floor.

Prowling around the dancers was a hologram of a snarling black panther wearing a collar of silver spikes. Each time he threw back his head and called, the crowd roared back at him.

Roarke turned his back on gleaming skin and hunting cats and watched Ricker walk into Purgatory.

He hadn't come alone, nor had Roarke expected him to. A dozen men fanned out, scoping the room with hard eyes. Half of them began to move through the crowd.

They would be the front sweep, he concluded, and would be carrying mini-scanners, high-powered, to locate and record the security cams, the alarms, the scopes.

They would find only what he'd elected to have them find.