Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(93)

“Who? Damn it, why can’t people stay home? Why do they always want to be in somebody else’s?”

“It’s Ariel Greenfeld, Eve, and Erik Pastor.”

“Ariel.” She had a flash of the pretty brunette who’d been held and tortured by a madman for days. And stayed sane, strong and smart.

“She got in touch today, and asked if they could come by this evening. I can take it, move them along.”

“No.” Reaching down, she took Roarke’s hand. “It’s like the call from your aunt. It’s good to remember what matters. Ariel matters. So,” she continued as they moved toward the steps, “she and Erik the neighbor are making it work.”

“Engaged, getting married in the fall.”

“Jesus, it’s like a virus, this marriage thing. I could’ve met her at Central—or elsewhere,” she added. “Probably should have. You can’t have victims and wits and all manner of God knows dropping in here.”

“I think this would be a clear exception. She did work for me, after all.”

“Yeah, but . . . did? She quit? Goddamn that sick-ass Lowell. Did he take that away from her? She loved to bake, and your place downtown had to be a great gig.”

“She’s baking. And you’ll see for yourself she’s in a good place. She’s happy and doing very well.”

Eve’s eyebrows drew together. “You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I know a lot about so many things.” He gave her hand a squeeze. As they started down the steps, Eve heard the voices from the parlor. She heard Ariel laugh.

She’d cut her hair. It was the first thing Eve noticed. Robert Lowell had liked his victims with long hair, long brown hair. So Ariel had cut hers into a short, sleek cap and punched red into it. It looked good on her, Eve thought—though it probably helped that the woman wasn’t pale, bleeding, and battling pain.

Her eyes were bright as they met Eve’s, and the smile exploded onto her face.

“Hi!” Then tears popped out as she rushed across the room and clamped her arms around Eve. “Not crying, not really crying. And I’ll stop in a minute.”

“Okay.”

“I kept wanting to come see you. I just wanted to get myself together before I did.”

“That’s okay, too.”

“Well.” Ariel stepped back, grinned. “So how’ve you been?”

“Not bad. How about you?”

“Pretty damn terrific, considering.” She held out a hand for Erik’s. “We’re getting married.”

“So I hear. Hey, Erik.”

“It’s really good to see you. Nice to see you again, too,” he said to Roarke, and had Eve sliding Roarke a look.

“Again?”

“I’ve been giving Ari a hand setting up the new shop.” He grinned at Roarke, all spiky black-and-bronze hair and happiness. “It rocks.”

“My own little bakery boutique. I’m going to make you a lot of money. I wasn’t sure I could do it, or much of anything when I first got out of the hospital. But you were so sure I could,” she said to Roarke.

“You and Erik. Now I am.”

“I had it on good authority that you could handle anything that came at you. We should have a drink to celebrate.”

“Your . . . I don’t know exactly what he is,” Ariel admitted. “The tall, skinny guy?”

“No one knows exactly what he is,” Eve put in, and made Ariel laugh.

“He said he’d bring in something that would suit. I hope that’s okay. Um, I don’t know if you remember, but when you saved my life and all that, I promised I’d bake you a cake. So . . .”

She stepped to the side and gestured. Following the direction, Eve walked forward.

One of the tables had been cleared off, probably by Summerset. There, on its glossy, pampered surface stood an enormous cake.

More like art, Eve thought.

An edible New York spread out, with its streets, its buildings, its rivers and parks, the tunnels, the bridges. Rapid cabs, maxibuses, jet-bikes, scooters, delivery vans, and other vehicles crammed those streets. People jammed sidewalks and glides. Shop windows held tiny, glittery displays, and glide-cart vendors served soy dogs and veggie hash.

She actually expected, for just a moment, to see it move, to hear it. “Holy shit.”

“That’s a good holy shit, right?” Ariel asked.

“That’s a kick-my-ass-and-call-me-Sally holy shit. There’s an illegals deal going down off Jane Street

,” Eve murmured, “and this guy’s getting mugged in Central Park.”

“Well, it happens.”

Stunned, Eve crouched down to stare at the image of herself Ariel had created. She stood on a slim tower, over the city. She wore her long, black coat, caught in mid-billow and boots even she could see were scuffed at the toe. In one hand she held her badge—right down to her rank and badge number, and in the other her weapon.

“Wow. Just . . . wow. It’s insanely iced. Do you see this?” she said to Roarke.

“I do. And I believe I’ve made an excellent investment. It’s spectacular, Ariel.”

“She spent weeks on the design,” Erik told them, pride riding in every word. “Kept changing it. The good part is I got to sample the rejects.”