Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(64)

“Give me until tomorrow. She's got a good eye, like I said, but it's more impressionistic, more big-picture. It'll take a little more work for me to finesse the details out of her.”

“Just how much is she going to forget while she's slurping down a brew and watching vids? I've got two cops in the f**king morgue.”

“I know what I'm doing.” For the first time in her memory, Yancy shoved up and into her face. “Just because I never worked with Knight or Preston doesn't mean I'm stringing this out. You want results, get off my ass.”

She could have slapped him down for it. Nearly did. God knew she wanted to take a swing at someone. Close ranks, she thought, and sometimes you end up taking a bite out of one of your own.

“Step back, Detective.”

He vibrated, the muscles in his jaw worked, but he stepped back.

“You're right,” Eve said. “You know what you're doing and I'm on your ass. We're all on edge about this. I requested you because I consider you the best we have. I also know you were off duty, and came in on your own time.”

“None of us are on our own time now.” His shoulders relaxed. “Sorry for the spew, Dallas. It's frustrating for me not to be able to put this together faster. I pushed her a little longer than I should have first session. Now I've got to pull back.”

“How sure are you about the facial structure on these?”

“Sure as I get. She's got that big-picture style. I'd say the shape of the faces is on target--at least for one. If she's right on both, these guys might be brothers or cousins. Father and son.”

“Shoot me copies, will you? I'll start with what you've got--and try to stay off your ass until you have more.”

He smiled a little. “Appreciate it.”

The house was quiet when she walked in. She'd nearly bunked at Central, would have if there wasn't a nine-year-old witness in her house. She had three cops patrolling the grounds, another three inside--a situation she imagined Roarke detested more than he would a stock market crash.

He might've built himself a fortress, but he wouldn't care to be under siege.

She checked in with all the night duties and got the all-clear before she went upstairs.

She'd thought he'd be in bed--it was closing in on three in the morning--but her house scan showed him in his office yet. She went into her own, dumped some files, then opened the connecting door to his.

She wasn't quite sure what to think when she saw the kid curled up in the spare bed Roarke must have brought out of its panel--and the man himself sitting beside her, eyes closed.

It was rare for her to see him sleep--he was so often up before her-- but she didn't see how that position, with his back up against the wall, could be comfortable.

Even as she debated, he spoke. Eyes still closed. “She was restless. I took the night shift, and let her come seek me out when she woke.”

“Nightmare?”

“Worse, really. She said she dreamed they were all still alive. Woke up, and they weren't.” He opened his eyes now, heavy and blue. “She sat with me awhile, but was so worried about going back to her room, I put her here. She asked if I'd sit with her. Apparently we both nodded off. I've had the searches going on silent, haven't been able to check them.”

“Morning's good enough, since it's only a couple hours away. What do we do with her? Can't leave her here.”

“Well . . .” He looked over, studied Nixie. “I could try carrying her back. If she wakes up, it's your turn.”

“Shit. Make sure she doesn't wake up.”

He slid off the bed. “This usually works with you.” He tucked his hands under her, lifted. Nixie gave a moan, stirred, and had them looking at each other in mild panic. Then her head dropped on his shoulder.

“Don't breathe,” Eve said in a whisper. “Don't talk. And maybe you could sort of glide instead of walk.”

He merely cocked his head, then inclined it toward the elevator.

She used manual instead of voice, held her own breath until they'd completed the trip and he was easing Nixie into bed. They backed out of the room together as if the bed contained a homemade boomer.

“When does Summerset take over?”

“Six.”

“Three hours. We should be okay then.”

“I sincerely hope so. I need to sleep and so do you.” He rubbed a thumb on the smudges under her eyes. “Anything new?”

“Yancy's working on a sketch, but he wants to get back to it in the morning.” In their bedroom, she shed her jacket, then her harness. “I need a few hours down myself. Brain's mushy. I want to be back at Central around oh-seven hundred. You get any names that look good, you can shoot them to me there.”

She peeled out of her boots, her clothes. “You tired enough not to argue if I ask you to work from here tomorrow?”

“At the moment. But I may revive by sunup.”

“We'll argue then.”

They crawled into bed, his arm came around her, snuggled her back against him. “That's a date.”

He didn't wake before her--another surprise. The low beep from the monitor across the room woke her, and a check of her wrist unit confirmed it was six hundred hours.

The room was still dark, but she could see him, the shape of him. The line of cheek and jaw, the sweep of hair. She'd turned to face him sometime during that short rest. Seeking ... what, she wondered. Connection, solace, warmth.