J. Robb - Possession in Death

“Cassie from Records.”

“Cassie from Records,” Nadine repeated. “I think I'd like to find out just what's going on between those two.”

Eve wandered toward the grill, where Roarke had passed the torch to Feeney, under the supervision of Dennis Mira. They were sort of an odd pair — diverse, as Nadine had said — the lanky, dreamy-eyed professor and the rumpled cop with his explosion of ginger hair.

“How's it going?” she asked.

“Got another couple orders for cow burgers, and these kabob deals.” Feeney flipped a patty.

“I don't know where they put it.” Dennis shook his head.

“Cop stomachs.” Feeney winked at Eve. “We eat what's in front of us, and plenty of it when we get the chance.”

“Somebody ought to save room for lemon meringue pie and strawberry shortcake.”

Feeney stopped with a burger on his flipper. “We got lemon meringue pie and strawberry shortcake?”

“That's the word on the street.”

“Where's it at?”

“I don't know. Ask Summerset.”

“Don't think I won't.” He flipped the burger then shoved the spatula at Dennis. “Take over. I'm getting my share before these vultures get wind.”

As Feeney rushed off, Dennis's eyes went even softer. “Is there whipped cream?”

“Probably.”

“Ah.” He handed her the spatula. “Would you mind?” he asked, adding a fatherly pat on the head. “I have a weakness for shortcake and whipped cream.”

“Um — ” But he was already strolling off.

Eve looked down at the sizzling patties, the skewered vegetables. It wasn't quite as terrifying as having a drooling baby dumped in her arms, but . . . How the hell did you know when they were done? Did something signal? Should she poke at them or leave them alone?

Everything sizzled and smoked, and there were countless dials and gauges. When she cautiously lifted another shiny lid, she found fat dogs — probably actual pig meat — cooking away like hot, engorged penises.

She closed the lid again, then let out a huff of relief when Roarke joined her.

“They deserted the field, seduced by rumors of cake and pie. You handle this.” She surrendered the spatula. “I might do something that puts Louise and her doctor's bag to work.”

He looked at the sizzle and smoke as she'd often seen him look at some thorny computer code. With the light of challenge in his eyes.

“It's actually satisfying, the grilling business.” He offered the spatula. “I could teach you.”

“No thanks. Eating it's satisfying, and I've already done that.”

He slid the burgers from grill to platter, then used some sort of tongs to transfer the kabobs.

“If I'd known they were done, I could've done that.”

“You have other talents.” He leaned down, the platter of food between them, and kissed her.

A good moment, she thought — the scents, the voices, the hot summer sun. Eve started to smile, then saw Lopez crossing in their direction. He walked like the boxer he'd been, she thought, the compact body light on the feet.

“Ready for another round, Chale?” Roarke asked him.

“The first was more than enough. I want to thank you both for having me. You have a beautiful home, beautiful friends.”

“You're not leaving already?”

“I'm afraid I have to. I have the evening Mass, with a baptism. The family requested me, so I have to get back to St. Cristóbal's and prepare. But I can't think of a nicer way to have spent the afternoon.”

“I'll drive you,” Eve said.

“That's kind of you.” He looked at her — warm brown eyes that to her mind always held a lingering hint of sadness. “But I couldn't take you away from your guests.”

“No problem. They're focused on food, and dessert's coming up.”

He continued to look at her, to search, and she knew he saw something as he nodded. “I'd appreciate it.”

“Why don't you take this?” Roarke handed Eve the platter. “Set it out, and I'll have Summerset box up some of the desserts for Chale.”

“You'd make me a hero in the rectory tonight. I'll just say my good-byes then.”

“Thanks,” Eve said when Lopez moved back to the party. “There's just a couple of things I wanted his take on. It won't take long.”

“Go ahead then. I'll have your vehicle brought around.”

She wasn't sure how to approach it, or even why she felt the need to. But he made it easy for her — maybe that's what men like Lopez did.

“You want to ask me about Li,” he began as she passed through the gates.

“Yeah, for one thing. I see Morris mostly over dead bodies, but I can get a sense of where he is. Just by wardrobe for a start. I know he's coming through it, but . . . ”

“It's hard to watch a friend grieve. I can't tell you specifics, as some of what we've talked about was in confidence. He's a strong and spiritual man, one who — like you — lives with death.”

“It helps — the work. I can see it,” Eve said, “and he's said it does.”

“Yes, tending to those whose lives have been taken, like his Amaryllis. It centers him. He misses her, misses the potential of what they might have made together. I can tell you most of his anger has passed. It's a start.”

“I don't know how people get rid of the anger. I don't know if I'd want to in his place.”

“You gave him justice — earthly justice. From there he needed to find acceptance, and then the faith that Amaryllis is in the hands of God. Or, if not God, the belief that she, too, has moved on to the next phase.”

“If the next phase is so great, why do we work so hard to stay in this one? Why does death seem so useless and hurt so damn much? All those people, just going along, living their lives, until somebody decides to end it for them. We should be pissed off. The dead should be pissed off. Maybe they are, because sometimes they just won't let go.”

“Murder breaks both God's law and man's, and it requires — demands — punishment.”

“So I put them in a cage and the next stop is a fiery hell? Maybe. I don't know. But what about the murdered? Some of them are innocent, just living their lives. But others? Others are as bad, or nearly, as the one who ended them. In this phase, I have to treat them all the same, do the job, close the case. I can do that. I have to do that. But maybe I wonder, sometimes, if it's enough for the innocent, and for the ones — like Morris — who get left behind.”

“You've had a difficult week,” he murmured.

“And then some.”

“If closing cases was all that mattered to you, if it began and ended there, you would never have suggested your friend meet with me. You and I wouldn't be having this conversation. And you wouldn't, couldn't, maintain your passion for the work I believe you were born to do.”

“Sometimes I wish I could see, or feel . . . No, I wish I could know, even once, that it's enough.”

He reached out, touched her hand briefly. “Our work isn't the same, but some of the questions we ask ourselves are.”

She glanced at him. Out of the side window she caught the movement. For a moment it seemed the streets, the sidewalks, were empty. Except for the old woman who staggered, who lifted an already bloodied hand to her chest an instant before she tumbled off the curb and into the street.

Eve slammed the brakes, flicked on her flashers. Even as she leaped out of the car, she yanked her 'link from her pocket. “Emergency sequence, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. I need MTs, I need a bus, six hundred block of 120 Street. First aid kit in the trunk,” she shouted at Lopez. “Code's two-five-six-zero-Baker-Zulu. Female victim,” she continued, dropping down beside the woman. “Multiple stab wounds. Hold on,” she muttered. “Hold on.” And dropping the 'link, she pressed her hands to the chest wound. “Help's coming.”