New York to Dallas (In Death #33)(8)

She hadn’t expected them. Apparently playing down this whole medal business hadn’t worked. Obviously, she thought, as she spotted Crack—hard to miss a giant, tattooed black guy with feathers hanging from his ears. And beside him stood Charles, the slick former licensed companion along with his new bride, the dedicated Dr. Louise Dimatto.

She felt a flutter of mild horror as she watched Trina elbow her way up to Mavis, nuzzle baby Bella, then shoot Eve a narrowed, critical look.

Jesus, it wasn’t as if anybody could even see her hair under the cap. Anybody but Trina, she decided. She suspected the hair-and-skin tech had X-ray vision.

Eve looked away, found Roarke, decided she felt more comfortable looking at him.

Who wouldn’t?

Then she experienced sheer shock as she was damn sure she caught a glimpse of a bony figure in black. Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo, pain in her ass, walking cadaver, here?

Maybe she was hallucinating due to interminable-speech boredom.

Every cop in her division attended, and as per her request stood on the steps. As did Feeney, her former trainer, partner, and current captain of the Electronic Detectives Division. His hangdog face remained sober, but she thought his eyes were a little glazed.

Imagined hers might be, too.

She tuned in again at the sound of applause, slid her gaze toward Commander Whitney as he joined the mayor. He, too, wore dress blues. She thought, as she often did, of the street cop he’d been before he’d taken the chair.

They moved to Strong. The mayor spoke quietly to her about her service, her injuries, fixed the medal on her chest.

The process repeated with Eve. She didn’t have anything—particularly—against the mayor. But Whitney’s handshake meant more than a politician’s words to her.

“Well done, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Now came the pride as the mayor spoke Peabody’s name. Integrity, honor, courage. She let the smile come—what the hell—as she heard Peabody’s voice, just a little shaky, accept the congratulations and gratitude.

For a moment it was okay—the time, the fuss, even the round of photo ops. Because she stood with two good cops, and the man she loved so much it made her stupid was smiling at her.

The milling began—shoulder slaps, handshakes. She caught the glint in Peabody’s eye, and fired one back.

“No hugging. Cops don’t hug.”

Peabody tracked her gaze to Strong, currently being hugged by another cop.

“She sustained injuries.”

“Okay, but in my mind you’re getting a giant hug and a big, sloppy kiss.”

“Keep it in your head or you’ll sustain injuries.”

Feeney stepped up to her, his uniform cap pulled low over his explosion of ginger and silver hair. “Nice work, kid.” He gave her the acceptable cop hug—a punch on the shoulder.

“Thanks.”

“Thought the mayor would never shut up, but all in all, it’s a damn good deal.”

Peabody got her hug and big sloppy, with the addition of a pat on the ass from McNab.

“Yeah, it’s a damn good deal.” She spotted Roarke making his way to her, and feared she’d get a hug—and more—despite her call for dignity.

But instead he simply took her hand in both of his. In his eyes she saw something that made her own sting. She saw pride.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant.” He tapped the medal with a fingertip. “It suits you. And to you, Ryan,” he said to Feeney, “for your part in making her the cop she is.”

Feeney’s color came up, as it did when he was pleased or embarrassed. “Well, she had the raw material. I just had to kick it into shape here and there.”

“He did plenty of that,” Eve began. “I think he—”

She broke off. She saw him, just a glimpse, just a flash. The handsome face, the jailhouse pallor. Sunshades, sandy hair slicked back, a smart gray pinstriped suit, royal-blue tie.

“Jesus Christ.”

She sprang forward, but the crowd swallowed them both. One hand on the butt of her weapon, Eve muscled her way through, craning her neck. Cops and civilians swarmed around her; the noise of downtown rolled over streets and sidewalk. An ad blimp blasted out a jingle for a sale at the Skymall.

Roarke snaked his way through to where she stood on the sidewalk, one hand still on her weapon, the other fisted in frustration.

“What is it?”

“I saw him. He was here.”

“Who?”

“McQueen. Isaac McQueen.” She shook her head. “Son of a bitch. I have to report to the commander.”

“I’ll wait. Go,” he said. “I’ll make your excuses to Mavis and the rest. And Eve.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I want to hear about this—all of it—when you’re done.”

Commander Whitney still wore the uniform, as did Eve, when she walked into his office. He stood behind his desk, a big man who carried the weight of command well on strong shoulders. His dark eyes, cop’s eyes, measured her before he nodded.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. He wanted me to see him, wanted me to know he could walk right through a sea of cops outside this house. He needs to insult and humiliate this department, and me in particular. I need to put a team together, Commander, asap, and find him.”