Judgment in Death (In Death #11)(32)

He sat again, gracefully arranged himself on the cushion. Like a cat, she thought. A very big, very dangerous cat. He sipped his wine, watching her over the crystal rim.

"Lieutenant," he said in a voice so mild it might have fooled another.

"What?"

"Do you expect me -- honestly expect me -- to do nothing?"

She set her glass down. It wasn't the time for wine. "Yes."

"You're not a stupid woman. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you."

"Don't do this, Roarke. Don't make this personal."

His eyes flashed, a hard glint of blue steel. "It is personal."

"Okay, no." She could handle it. Had to. And leaned forward toward him. "It's not, unless you let him string you. He wants it to be, wants you to make it personal so he can f**k with you. Roarke, you're not a stupid man. Your instincts and intellect are two of the things I admire most about you."

For the first time in more than an hour, his lips curved in a hint of a smile. "Well done, Eve."

"He can't hurt me." Seeing her opening, all but diving through it, she shifted onto her knees, put her hands on his shoulders. "Unless you let him. He can hurt me through you. Don't let him do that. Don't play the game."

"Do you think I won't win?"

She lowered to her heels. "I know you will. It scares me knowing you will and what the cost could be to both of us. To us, Roarke. Don't do this. Let me work it."

He said nothing a moment, looking in her eyes, studying what he saw there, felt there. "If he touches you again, puts his mark on you again, he's dead. No, be quiet," he said before she could speak. "I'll stand back so far, for you. But he crosses the line, and it's over. I'll find the way, the time, and it's over."

"I don't need that."

"Darling Eve." He touched her now, just a skim of his fingertips over her jaw. "I need that. You don't know him. As much as you've seen, as much as you've done, you don't know him. I do."

Sometimes, she reminded herself, you had to settle for what you could get. "You won't go after him."

"Not at the moment. And that costs me, so leave it at that."

When he pushed off the couch, she felt the chill, swore under her breath. "You're still pissed off at me."

"Oh yes. Yes, I am."

"What do you want from me?" Exasperated, she scrambled to her feet and wished she didn't want to punch a fist into his gorgeous face for lack of a better solution. "I said I was sorry."

"You're sorry because I pinned you."

"Okay, right. That's mostly right." Out of patience with him, with herself, she kicked viciously at the sofa. "I don't know how to do this! I love you, and it makes me crazy. Isn't that bad enough?"

He had to laugh. She looked so baffled. "Christ Jesus, Eve, you're a piece of work."

"I ought to at least get some sort of handicap for... Damn it," she hissed as her communicator beeped. She resisted the urge to simply pluck it out and wing it against the wall. Instead, she just kicked the sofa again. "Dallas. What?"

Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. DOS reported, George Washington Bridge, eastbound, level two. Victim is preliminarily identified as Mills, Lieutenant Alan, assigned to Precinct One two-eight, Illegals Division. You are ordered to report to scene immediately, as primary.

"Oh God. Oh Christ. Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Officer Delia, to act as aide. I'm on my way."

She was sitting now, her head weighing heavily in one hand, her stomach dragging to her knees. "Another cop. Another dead cop."

"I'm going with you. With you, Lieutenant," Roarke said when she shook her head. "Or alone. But I'm going. Get dressed. I'll drive. I can get us there faster."

The bridge sparkled, an arch teeming with lights against the clear night sky. In that sky, busy air traffic streamed, all but obliterating the tentative light of a thumbnail moon.

Life surged on.

On the second level of the bridge, closed now to traffic, a dozen black and whites and city units crowded together like hounds on a hunt. She could hear the 'link chatter, the mutters and oaths, as she cut through the uniforms and plain-clothes.

More lights, cold blue, iced white and blood red washed over her face. She didn't speak but walked to the dirty beige vehicle parked in the break-down lane.

Mills was in the passenger's seat, his eyes closed, his chin on his chest as if he'd stopped to take a catnap. From the chin down, he was blood.

Eve stood, coating her hands with Seal-It, and studied the position of the body.

Posed, she thought as she leaned in the open window. She saw the badge, facedown on the bloody floor of the car, and she saw the dull glint of silver coins.

"Who found him?"

"Good Samaritan." One of the uniforms stepped forward, as if he'd been waiting anxiously for his cue. "We got him stashed in a unit with a couple of cops. He's pretty shook."

"You get a name, a statement?"

"Yes, sir." Smartly, the uniform flipped out his notebook, keyed in. "James Stein, 1001 Ninety-fifth. He was heading home from work -- worked late tonight -- and saw the vehicle in the break-down lane. Wasn't much traffic, he said, and he saw somebody sitting in the car. Felt bad about it. Stopped, went over to see if he could lend a hand. When he saw the deceased, he called it in."