Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(75)

She used her authorization to request the case files on both explosions. And hit a block. Files sealed.

“Screw that,” she muttered, and without thinking contacted her commander at home. The blocked video and rusty voice had her glancing at her wrist unit. And wincing.

“I apologize, sir. I didn’t check the time.”

“I did. What is it, Lieutenant?”

“I’m following a lead, and it involves a pair of explosions in East Harlem seventeen years ago. I believe the as-yet-unofficially identified victim may have been involved. Those files have been sealed. It would be helpful to know if any on my list were questioned or suspected of involvement.”

He let out a long sigh. “Is this a matter of urgency?”

“No, sir. But—”

“Send the request to my home and office units. I’ll have you cleared in the morning. It’s nearly midnight, Lieutenant. Go to bed.”

He clicked off.

She sulked for a few seconds. Stared thoughtfully at the doorway connecting her office and Roarke’s for a few seconds more. Roarke could get into the sealed files in minutes, she had no doubt. And if she’d thought of that before she’d tagged Whitney, she might’ve been able to justify asking Roarke to do just that.

Now she’d started the tape rolling, and had to wait for it to unwind.

She sent the formal request, added the evening’s interviews and notes to her own case file. She pinned more names and photos to her board. Teresa, Chávez, Joe Inez, Penny Soto.

Then she crossed to the doorway. “I’m done. I’m going to bed.”

Roarke glanced up. “I’ll be done shortly.”

“Okay. Ah, could you make a boomer, on timer? I don’t mean now, because, duh, I mean back when you were a kid?”

“Yes. And did. Why?”

“Could you because you’re handy with electronics or with explosives?”

“Both.”

She nodded, decided it would give her something to chew on until morning. “Okay. ’Night.”

“Who or what did Lino blow up?”

“I’m not sure. Yet. But I’ll let you know.”

15

A MORNING STORM RUMBLED OUTSIDE THE WINDOWS. The thunder, a bit dim and distant, sounded like the sky clearing its throat. Rain slid down the windows like an endless fall of gray tears.

As much for comfort as light, Roarke ordered the bedroom fire on low while he scanned the morning stock reports on-screen.

But he couldn’t concentrate. When he switched to the morning news, he found that didn’t hold his interest either. Restless, unsettled, he glanced over as Eve grabbed a shirt out of her closet. He noticed she’d removed the cold patch.

“How’s the shoulder?”

She rolled it. “It’s good. I sent a text to Peabody last night to have her meet me here this morning. I’m going to go down and head her off before she comes up and tries to cage breakfast. What?” she added when he rose and walked to the closet.

He took the jacket she’d pulled out, scanned the other choices briefly, and chose another. “This one.”

“I bet everyone I badge today is going to take special note of my jacket.”

“They would if you’d worn the other with those pants.” He kissed the top of her head. “And the faux pas would, very possibly, undermine your authority.”

She snorted, but went with his selection. When he didn’t move, but stood in her way, she frowned and said, “What?” again.

This time he cupped her face in his hands, and kissed her mouth, very gently. “I love you.”

Her heart went gooey, instantly. “I got that.”

He turned, crossed to the AutoChef, and got more coffee for both of them.

“What’s wrong?” she asked him.

“Nothing. Not really. Miserable morning out there.” But that wasn’t it, he thought as he stood, staring out through the dreary curtain of rain. That wasn’t it at all. “I had a dream.”

She changed her plans, and instead of going downstairs walked over to the sofa, sat. “Bad?”

“No. Well, disturbing and odd, I suppose. Very lucid, which is more your style than mine.”

He turned, saw that she’d sat down, that she waited. And that was more comforting than any fire in the hearth. He went to her, handed off her coffee. And sitting beside her, rubbed a hand gently on her leg in a gesture that was both gratitude and connection.

“It might be all the talk about the old days, childhood friends, and so on kicked my subconscious.”

“It bothered you. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“When I woke it was over, wasn’t it, and I didn’t see the point. And then, just now . . . Well, in any case, I was back in Dublin, a boy again, running the streets, picking pockets. That part, at least, wasn’t disturbing. It was rather entertaining.”

“Good times.”

He laughed a little. “Some of them were. I could smell it—the crowds on Grafton Street

. Good pickings there, if you were quick enough. And the buskers playing the old tunes to draw the tourists in. There were those among them, if you gave them a cut, they’d keep the crowd pulled in for you. We’d work a snatch, pass, drop on Grafton. I’d lift the wallet or purse, pass it on to Jenny, and she to Mick, and Brian would drop it at our hidey-hole in an alley.