Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(61)

When he closed the door, her shoulders squared. When she realized it, she reminded herself of Trueheart.

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

She took the visitor's chair, leaving him the marginally sturdier one at the desk. But he didn't sit, simply stood with the coffee in his hand.

“It's difficult to lose men. It's difficult to accept that your orders put them in harm's way.” He looked toward her board, toward the pictures of two cops. “These aren't the first men either of us has lost.”

“No, sir.”

“But each is like the first. Each is difficult. Taking orders is less of a burden than giving them. You need to carry that weight, and stop yourself from asking if you should have done something different. You did what you had to do, just as your men did what they had to do. We may lose more in our pursuit of the scum who did this, and you are not allowed to hesitate to give the orders, you are not allowed to second guess what you know has to be done.”

“I've dealt with it, Commander.”

“You've started to. It'll come back on you when you stop, when you're away from here and the work. It'll come back on you, and you'll have to finish dealing with it. And put it away. If you have trouble doing that, speak with Mira or one of the department counselors.”

“I'll put it away. There isn't an officer in my division or in this department who should trust me if I can't. Or don't. I understood that I'd face this when I accepted the promotion to lieutenant. I understand that I'll be here again, with the faces of men I know on my board.”

“You should be captain,” he said, and she said nothing. “You know there are reasons, mostly political, why you haven't yet been offered the opportunity to test for a captaincy.”

“I know the reasons, sir, and accept them.”

“You don't know them all. I could push it, push the chief, call in some markers.”

“I don't want markers called in on my account.”

He smiled a little. “Markers are made to be called in. But I don't-- not yet--because, frankly, Dallas, I'm not ready to have one of my best street cops riding a desk. And you're not ready to comfortably ride one.”

“No, sir. I'm not.”

“We'll both know when you are. Good coffee,” he said and took another swallow. “I'll see you in the ready room.”

12

IN HIS OFFICE, ROARKE SET UP FOR HIS ASSIGNMENT. It continued to surprise him how much he enjoyed doing cop work. Most of his life had been spent avoiding, evading, or out-thinking cops.

Now he was not only married to one, ridiculously in love with one, but he spent a great deal of his time in a consultant capacity for the NYPSD.

Life was a bloody strange game.

Then again, perhaps it was the game of it that accounted for part of the entertainment. The puzzle that needed to be solved, with facts, with evidence, and with instinct.

They made a good team, he and his cop, he thought, as he poured himself a brandy before getting down to it. She with her ingrained cop senses, he with his ingrained criminal ones.

Just because he was retired from the shadier aspects of the law didn't mean the instincts weren't still humming.

He'd killed. Brutally, coldly, bloodily. He knew what it was to take a life, and what could drive one human to end the existence of another.

She accepted that in him, his justice-seeking Eve. Maybe not forgave, but accepted. Even understood, and that was one of his miracles.

But even at his worst, he'd never killed an innocent. Never ended the life of a child. Still, he could comprehend it, even as Eve could. They both knew evil not only existed, it flourished and grew fat, and it reveled in its pursuit of the weak and the innocent.

He had an abrupt and crystal-clear image of himself--filthy shirt, bloody nose, hard and defiant eyes--standing at the top of the steps in the stinking dump where he'd once lived in Dublin.

And there was his father--big, strapping Patrick Roarke--weaving a bit from too much drink.

You thinly you can pass off a couple of thin wallets as a day's take? I'll have the rest of it, you buggering little bastard.

He remembered the boot coming up--he remembered that still-- and his quick dodge. Not quick enough, though, not that time. He felt now as he'd felt then, the stomach-dropping sensation of falling, of knowing it would be bad. Had he cried out? Odd that he couldn't remember. Had he yelled in shock, cursed in fury, or just gone down those steps in a bone-banging roll?

What he could remember, and wasn't that a bitch, was the sound of his father laughing as the boy he'd been tumbled down the stairs. What was his age then? Five? Six? No matter.

And, well, hell, he had been holding back, hadn't he? And considered the cuts and bruises worth the ten pounds he'd stashed away.

Nixie had never been booted down the stairs by a drunken bastard who'd happened to share her blood.

And yet the child would understand about evil and cruelty, too. Poor little bit.

He glanced at his monitor, where he could see her curled under the covers of the bed they'd given her, in a room provided by strangers, with the light left dim.

She would come to understand it. Now there was only pain and confusion and grief. But she would come to, and make her choices to rebuild her life on that broken ground.

He'd made his, and didn't regret them. He could regret nothing that brought him where he was, that brought him to Eve. But he didn't wish the same for this small, fragile survivor.