Possession in Death (In Death #31.5)(2)

He brought the hand he held to his lips. “And still you’re sad.”

She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. “Not sad, or… I don’t know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shut—and I got to look them both in the face and let them know it.”

She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasn’t peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.

“He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil.”

“The one meant for you,” Roarke reminded her.

“Yeah. And he’s pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasn’t me on a slab at the morgue.”

“I expect he was,” Roarke said coolly. “But that’s not what’s got you going.”

She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poet’s mouth set firm now because she’d made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.

“You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there.”

“And still he drew blood, didn’t he?” Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.

She tapped it. “And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didn’t make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?”

“I don’t, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today.”

“Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A f**king dollar, Roarke—just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.”

It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. “It makes me sick,” she repeated. “All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don’t know why, I just don’t know why it churns my stomach. I’ve seen worse. God, we’ve both seen worse.”

“But rarely more futile.” He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. “No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn’t it make you sick? It does me as well.”

“I contacted the next of kin,” she began. “Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That’s why I’m late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I’d feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked me why. Why had these men killed their daughter, their husband, their mother?”

“And what did you tell them?”

“Sometimes there’s no why, or not one we can understand.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I want to be pissed.”

“You are, under it. And under that, you know you did good work. And you’re alive, darling Eve.” He drew her in to kiss her brow. “Which, to take this to their level, makes them losers.”

“I guess it does. I guess that’s going to have to be enough.”

She took his face in her hands, smiled a little. “And there’s the added bonus that they hate us both. Really hate us. That adds a boost.”

“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be hated by, or anyone I’d rather be hated with.”

Now the smile moved into her eyes. “Me either. If I keep that front and center, I could be in the mood to party. I guess we should go down and do whatever we’re supposed to do before everybody gets here.”

“Change first. You’ll feel more in the party mode without your boots and weapon.”

By the time she’d changed trousers for cotton pants, boots for skids, and made it downstairs, she heard voices in the foyer. She spotted her partner, Peabody, her short, dark ponytail bouncing, summery dress swirling. Peabody’s cohab, e-detective and premier geek McNab, stood beside her in a skin tank crisscrossed with more colors than an atomic rainbow paired with baggy, hot pink knee shorts and gel flips.

He turned, the forest of silver rings on his left earlobe shimmering, and shot Eve a wide grin. “Hey, Dallas. We brought you something.”

“My granny’s homemade wine.” Peabody held up the bottle. “I know you’ve got a wine cellar the size of California, but we thought you’d get a charge. It’s good stuff.”

“Let’s go out and open it up. I’m ready for some good stuff.”

Peabody kept eye contact, quirked her brows. “All okay?”

“The PA’s probably still doing his happy dance. Case closed,” she said, and left out the rest. No point in adding the details now that would leave her partner as troubled as she’d been.

“We’ll have the first drink with a toast to the NYPSD’s Homicide—and Electronic Detectives divisions,” Roarke said with a wink for McNab.

The wide stone terrace held tables already loaded with food and shaded by umbrellas, and the gardens exploded with color and scent. The monster grill Roarke had conquered—mostly—looked formidable, and the wine was indeed good stuff.