Treachery in Death (In Death #32)(12)

“Judith is a neurosurgeon—chief of surgery, in fact, at a top London hospital. Oliver is a historian and author. If you’d bothered to spend five of your precious minutes with them, you’d have learned that they met and worked with Summerset as medics during the end of the Urbans, when they were only teenagers.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets. “You want me to feel like shit, well, I’m not going to.” But of course she did, which only throttled her resentment to fire against his ice.

“I didn’t know what was going on because nobody told me. You could’ve tagged me, then I’d have known I’d be walking in on you guys halfway through a fancy meal when I’m grubby from work.”

“When you don’t bother to let anyone know when you’ll come home I have to assume you’re tied up with something. And I’m damned, Eve, if I’m going to start tagging you asking what you’re doing, when you’re coming home like some nagging spouse.”

“I meant to contact you. I started to—twice—but both times I got interrupted. By the end of the interruption, I forgot. I just forgot, okay? Get a rope. You’re the one who married a cop, so you’re the one who has to deal with it.”

He rose, walked toward her as she continued to rant.

“Locking up the bad guys is just a little bit more important than being home on time to have dinner with a couple of people I don’t know anyway.”

Eyes on hers, he flicked her shoulder. Her mouth fell open.

She started stomping the floor.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” he demanded.

“Trying to kill the giant tarantula, because the only reason I can figure you just f**king flicked me is because there was a big, fat spider on my shoulder.”

“Actually, I was knocking the chip away that was balanced there. It looked awfully heavy.”

She strode away from him before she did something violent. She eyed the AutoChef. “How do you program this thing for a steaming cup of f**k you?”

“Children,” Summerset said from the doorway.

They both whirled on him, both snarled, “What?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt your playtime—and might suggest the next time you want to behave like a pair of morons you shut the door as I could hear your clever banter halfway down the hall. However, Detectives Peabody and McNab are downstairs. She seems very upset, and informs me she needs to speak with you. Urgently.”

“Crap.” Eve hurried to her closet for shoes as she ran through the investigation they’d just completed. Had they missed something?

“They’re waiting in the parlor. By the way, Judith and Oliver said to tell you good-bye, and they hope to see you again when you have more time.”

She caught the chilly glance before he melted away, and decided she probably would feel like two jumbo scoops of shit. But later.

“You don’t have to go down,” she said stiffly to Roarke. “I can handle this.”

“I’ll do more than flick you in a minute.” He walked out ahead of her.

They maintained a fuming silence all the way down and into the parlor with its rich colors and gleaming antiques. Amid the stunning art, the glint of crystal, Peabody sat, sheet-pale, with McNab’s arm tight around her.

“Dallas.” Peabody got to her feet.

“What the hell, Peabody? Did those three idiots execute a jailbreak?”

Instead of smiling, Peabody shuddered. “I wish it was that easy.”

When Peabody sank down again, Eve crossed over. She sat on the table so they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not now. I was. I had to come, to tell you. I’m not sure what to do.”

“About what?”

“Tell it from the beginning,” McNab suggested. “You won’t jump around so much. Just start at the top.”

“Yeah, okay. I—ah—Okay. After I finished the paperwork, I decided I’d do an hour in the gym, work on my hand-to-hand. You said it was a weak spot. I went down to the second-level facilities.”

“Jesus, why? It’s a pit.”

“Yeah.” As she’d hoped, the comment had Peabody taking a breath. “It really is, so nobody much uses it, and my gear’s old and ugly, and I just didn’t want to sweat and stuff with the hard bodies in the new space. I put in an hour, overdid it.”

Peabody raked a hand through the hair she hadn’t bothered to brush. “I was toasted, you know. Went in for a shower. I had my things stuffed in a couple of the lockers. I’d just finished, started drying off in the stall when the locker room door bangs open, and two people come in, arguing.”

“Here.” Roarke pushed a glass of wine in her hand. “Sip a bit.”

“Oh boy, thanks,” she said as he offered McNab the e-man’s favored beer. Peabody sipped, breathed. “Female, seriously pissed. I started to call out so they’d know I was in there, so they’d take the fight elsewhere, then the other one goes off. Male. I’m in the damn stall with nothing but a towel that wouldn’t cover a teacup poodle, so I sort of squeeze back into the corner, and hope they go away. But they didn’t, and I hear them talking about the operation she runs, how he f**ked up and cost them ten K. God.”

“Slow down a little, Dee.” McNab murmured it while he rubbed a hand on her thigh.