Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(56)

“Preston may have hit one of them. I'm telling you that friend to friend, not cop to reporter. Because you knew them. Because I knew them, and thinking he might've hit one of them helps me.”

“Thanks.”

“I've got to go finish up here, seal the scene, then go in,” Eve said to Roarke. “I don't know when I'll be home.”

“Call, will you, when you do?”

“Sure.” She thought of what he'd said earlier about the risks she had to take. And what it might be like for him to see other cops, bloody and dead.

So despite Nadine, despite the other cops, the techs, the few gawkers who'd yet to be nudged on their way, she stepped to him, stepped into him. Laid her hands on his face, laid her lips on his.

“I can get you a ride in one of the black-and-whites.”

He smiled at her. “There is nothing I'd like less. I'll take care of my own transpo. Nadine, I'll give you a lift.”

“If I could have a kiss like that, I'd be lifted into orbit. But I'll settle for a ride to the station. Dallas, if you need some research on the side, another pair of hands or eyes, mine are yours. No strings on this one.”

“I'll keep it in mind. Later.” She strode back up the sidewalk, and back into the narrow box that smelled of death.

11

WORD SPREAD QUICKLY WHEN COPS WENT down. By the time Eve reached Central, that word had streamed through the maze, slid into cubes and offices, and had the air thick with fury.

She stepped into the bull pen, paused. She wasn't much for speeches. She preferred briefings or orders. But she was rank here, and the men deserved to hear from her.

They were at desks, in cubes, answering 'links, writing reports. A couple were taking statements from civilians who'd either been victimized or had victimized someone else.

There was the smell of bad fake coffee, sickly sugar substitute, sweat, and someone's greasy dinner. And under it was that fury, a ripe, rich, dangerous odor.

Most of the noise stopped when she came in, but one of the civilians continued to weep in soft, liquid sobs. 'Links beeped, and for the moment were ignored.

She knew she had blood on her, and she knew every cop in the room saw it and thought of where it had come from.

“Detectives Owen Knight and James Preston went down in the line at approximately twenty-fifteen this evening. They were murdered while doing the job. Detective Knight leaves a mother, father, and sister. Detective Preston leaves a wife, a three-year-old son, his parents, grandparents. Donations to the Survivors' Fund can be made in their names. Detective Jannson,” Eve said, “will you coordinate?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. Can you give us the status, Lieutenant?”

“We believe tonight's events are connected to the Swisher homicides. Five civilians, two of them minors, were murdered. Preston and Knight, and every one of us, is charged with protecting and serving the people of New York, of seeing to their safety. Those of us here, in Homicide, are equally charged to serve those whose lives have been taken, of searching out and apprehending those who take lives. We close cases here, and we'll close this one. For those five civilians, two of them minors, and the people they left behind. Now they've taken two of our own, and we will search them out and apprehend.”

She waited a beat, and there was only silence. “Until such time any and all requests for personal time, vacation time, sick leave must be cleared by me or the ranking officer on shift. You'll be working this case in addition to your currents, reports to be filed daily. No exceptions. At change of shift, report to the ready room for a full briefing and assignments. We're going to hunt them down, and we're going to take them out. That's it.”

She heard no complaints at the additional load as she walked into her office, shut the door.

She got coffee, then just sat.

A police representative and department counselor would have delivered the news by now to the families of the dead. So she was spared that. She would have to speak to them at the memorials, offer some words.

She wanted the words to include: We got the sons of bitches who did this. Who left you a widow, who killed your son, your brother. Who left you without a father.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, then rose to pin the stills from the scene onto her board.

Then she sat to write her report.

None of the other safe houses had been hit. Didn't hit them, she thought, because you knew the target wasn't there. Knew that when you found two armed cops guarding an empty house.

Killing them was a flourish, she decided. A message. No need to finish them off when they were down. Already decided to do that, though. Part of the mission. Take out everybody inside, another clean sweep.

And what's the message? Why add cop killing to the mix when it brings down the full force of the NYPSD? Because you think you're better--smarter, slicker, better equipped. And you know we've made the connection. You know we've got the kid and you want her.

Newman would have told you the kid can't ID you. But she's a detail, she's a miss, and you can't risk it.

I wouldn't, Eve thought. No, I wouldn't chance leaving that thread dangling when I'd been so careful. It's not squared away, and it's a little bit insulting. Some snot-nosed kid slips out from under you?

Pride in the work. She tipped back just a bit, rolled her shoulders. Got to have pride in the work to be that damn good at it. And the mission wasn't accomplished, is not complete until Nixie Swisher is dead.