Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(33)

It wasn’t relevant. It didn’t matter. What difference did it make to the case that some bastards had beaten, raped, and strangled the love of his life? It wasn’t connected.

Identifying the victim was connected. Finding the killer mattered. The job didn’t include imagining some girl in Mexico left naked and dead by a river. She had enough blood and death crowded in her brain without adding more—more that didn’t apply to her or the work.

She slammed out of her vehicle, strode into the house. And with that pissiness tangled with a depression she hadn’t acknowledged, barely spared a snarl for Summerset.

“Kiss my unenhanced ass,” she said before he could speak, and kept walking. “Or I’ll plant my visibly shod foot up yours.” She stormed straight into the elevator, ordered the gym. What she needed, she thought, was a good, sweaty workout.

In the foyer, Summerset merely cocked an eyebrow at the pensive Galahad, then stepped to the house ’link to contact Roarke up in his office.

“Something’s disturbing the lieutenant—more than usual. She’s gone down to the gym.”

“I’ll take care of it. Thanks.”

He gave her an hour, though he checked on her by house screen once or twice. She’d hit the virtual run first, and it was telling, Roarke supposed, that she’d chosen New York’s streets rather than her usual beach canvas. Then she hit the weights, worked up a solid sweat. Roarke found it mildly disappointing when she didn’t activate the sparring droid and beat it senseless.

When she’d moved into the pool house and dived in, he shut down his work. By the time he got down, she was out of the pool and drying off. Not a good sign, he decided. Swimming generally relaxed her, and she tended to draw out her laps.

Still, he smiled. “And how are you?”

“Okay. Didn’t know you were home.” She pulled on a robe. “I wanted a workout before I went up.”

“Then it must be time to go up.” He took her hand, brushed her lips with his. Summerset’s barometer was, as usual, accurate, Roarke thought. Something was disturbing the lieutenant.

“I’ve got to put a couple hours in.”

He nodded, led the way to the elevator.

“The case is a bitch.”

“They’re rarely otherwise.” He watched her as they rode to the bedroom.

“I don’t even know who the vic was.”

“It’s not your first John Doe.”

“No. It’s not my first anything.”

He said nothing, only moved to the wall panel to open it and select a wine while she grabbed pants and a shirt from her drawer.

“I’m going to stick with coffee.”

Roarke set her wine down, sipped his own.

“And I’m just going to grab a sandwich or something. I need to do a search on the records I just got, do some cross-references.”

“That’s fine. You can have your coffee, your sandwich, your records. As soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”

“I just told you the case is a bitch.”

“You’ve had worse. Much worse. Do you think I can’t see you’ve got something knotted inside you? What happened today?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” She scooped her fingers through the messy cap of hair she hadn’t bothered to dry. “We’ve confirmed the vic isn’t Flores, followed a lead that didn’t pan, have a couple of others that may.” She picked up the wine she’d said she didn’t want, and drank as she paced the bedroom. “Spent a lot of time talking to people who worked with or knew the vic, and watched the various degrees of meltdown when I informed them he wasn’t Flores, or a priest.”

“That’s not it. What else?”

“There is no it.”

“There is, yes.” Casually, he leaned back on the dresser, took another sip of his wine. “But I’ve time to wait until you stop being a martyr and let it out.”

“Can’t you ever mind your own business? Do you always have to stick your fingers in mine?”

Pissing her off, he knew, was a shortcut to getting to the core. His lips curved, very deliberately. “My wife is my business.”

If her eyes had been weapons, he’d be dead. “You can stick that ‘my wife’ crap. I’m a cop; I’ve got a case. One to which, for a change, you have no connection. So butt out.”

“How’s this? No.”

She slammed down her wine, started to storm for the door. When he simply stepped into her path, her fists bunched. “Go ahead,” he invited, as if amused. “Take a shot.”

“I ought to. You’re obstructing justice, pal.”

In challenge, he leaned in a little more. “Arrest me.”

“This isn’t about you, goddamn it, so just move and let me work.”

“And again, no.” He caught her chin in his hand, kissed her with more force. Drew back. “I love you.”

She spun away from him, but not before he saw both the fury and frustration on her face. “Low blow. Fucking low blow.”

“It was, yes. Sod me, I’m a bastard.”

She rubbed her hands over her face, raked them back through her damp hair. Kicked the dresser. Coming around now, he thought. He picked up her wine, crossed over to hand it back to her.