J. Robb - Indulgence in death

“I had a bigger and considerably more vicious fight with you before, in my head. It was passionate, fierce, and very, very loud.”

“Who won?”

He had to touch her, just a skim of his fingertip down the little dent in her chin. “We hadn’t quite got there, but since we’ve finished it here, I like to think we both have.”

“I meant what I said in there, which I shouldn’t have said in front of Whitney. I can’t have another face on that board.” He watched her face change, watched her let him see what was inside.

“The ones on there now, I couldn’t stop it; I couldn’t save them. But if there’s another, I own it, because I know I have the tools to stop it. To make the best possible effort to stop it.”

“And the warrants aren’t enough?”

“I had to believe it to sell it, so I did. I still do, almost clear through.” She looked away for a moment. “But there’s that fraction, that percentage that maybe they’ve covered everything, that we won’t find enough to charge them-or we’ll charge them, indict them, and that fleet of high-priced lawyers will find enough little holes to spring them. I’m hedging my bets, and I’ve got a couple other ideas that should add more edge. You could help me with them.”

“I suppose I could.”

“Do you know where they’re going to be tonight?”

“They’re attending the ballet, at the Strathmore Center.”

“Can you score us tickets?”

“We have a box. They are, however, meeting for drinks at Lionel’s before the performance.”

“That’ll work even better.” She took his hand, linked fingers. “Let me lay it out for you.”

He had to admit, she’d slapped together an interesting and inventive scenario in very short order. He refined it a bit, and felt as confident as he could.

“I’m going to give Reo another thirty. She should’ve finished talking to her boss by then. I’ll need to brief the team.”

“They’re meeting at seven. That gives you time for an hour’s sleep. Not negotiable,” he said before she objected. “And not on the damn floor. There have to be cots at least in your infirmary.”

“I hate the infirmary.”

“Suck it up,” he advised.

“Mira has a big couch in her session room. I’ll ask if I can use it.”

“Make it we. I could use a lie-down myself.”

She slept like the dead woman a couple of rich guys wanted her to be, then contacted Reo. Again.

“Tell me you’ve got it.”

“I told you I’d contact you when I did. Didn’t I tell you the boss thinks Judge Dwier’s the best hit on this?” The testy edge of frustration came through loud and clear. “No known connections with either family, solid reputation, open-minded, and so on and so on, and didn’t I tell you Judge Dwier is fly-fishing in Montana?”

“And didn’t I say go with another choice?”

“Don’t tell us our jobs. The PA’s talking to the judge right now. He’s walking him through it, and my sense is we’re nearly there. We’re ninety percent there.”

“Close enough. When you’ve got it, tag Baxter. He’ll head up that end.”

“Where are you going to be?”

“I’m going to meet a couple guys at a bar.”

She clicked off as Feeney came in. “Gotta suit you up.”

“I can do that.” Roarke walked in behind him, carrying a silver garment bag. “She’ll need to change anyway.”

“Into what?” Eve demanded.

“Appropriate attire. Your con will be more convincing if you’re dressed for an evening out.”

“I’ll test you out when you’re attired.” With a snort, Feeney strolled out.

“Strip it off, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her. He shut and locked the door.

“I need to be able to carry my weapon.”

“I said appropriate attire.” He unzipped the bag.

The dress was short, simple, and black. But it came with a hip-skimming jacket that fastened up the front with a lot of fancy loops.

“Somebody could kill me five times before I got that jacket undone and drew my weapon.”

Roarke simply demonstrated by tugging the jacket open. “The loops are for show.”

“Not bad. Not bad at all.” When she peeled off her clothes, Roarke fixed on the recorder, the mic, the earpiece. “Where’d the dress come from?”

“Your closet. I had Summerset bring it down. Along with the accessories.” He held up diamond earrings. “They’ll see these, believe me, and won’t give a single thought to the possibility you’re wired. And switch your wrist unit for the evening one.”

She gave it, all that fire and ice, a dubious glance. “I haven’t really played with that one.”

“It works the same way as your everyday. You can carry a clutch piece in this bag-though not much else. Add the shoes.”

They were hot murder red with heels that made her arches twinge when she looked at them. “How am I supposed to run in those?”

He gave her a quick, amused look. “Are you planning on running?”

“You never know.” But she dressed, and added the murderous shoes. “Appropriate?”

“You’re perfect.” He framed her face with his hands. “Perfect for me.”

“We’re supposed to be pissed at each other, remember. You need to get in character.”

“I never have a problem acting pissed at you.” When he grinned, he brushed his lips over hers. He laid his forehead to hers briefly at the knock on the door, then crossed over to answer.

“Peabody, you look lovely.”

“Thanks.” She lifted her hands, palms up to Eve. “Well?”

She also wore black, young and funky, with a brightly striped sleeveless vest that covered her sidearm. With her hair done in crazed corkscrew curls, her eyes lined in emerald green, and her lips as red as Eve’s shoes, Eve was forced to agree.

“You’re right. They won’t make you.”

“McNab and I are heading out now so we’ll already be in place when the subjects get there. Detective Carmichael and the new guy will take the ballet. Baxter’s waiting for the go, then he’ll have both search units move in.”

“Good work, Peabody.”

“See you at the bar.”

“She’s juiced,” Eve commented. “She took a booster earlier, but this is just juice. Because we’re close, because we’re going to bring them in before much longer. Bring them in, sweat them, break them. End it.”

“Someone else is juiced.”

“Bet your ass, ace.” She did a couple of squats and pivots to see how the dress cooperated. “Can you tell I’m loaded? The weapon,” she elaborated when he smiled at her.

“I can. They won’t. You know, I’m starting to enjoy this whole business myself.”

“Wait till I unload on them.” She tore open the jacket, pulled her weapon. Slapped it back in its harness. “You’re going to get a serious charge.”

They walked into the elegant lounge with its deep ruby and rich sapphire tones in what appeared to be a low-voiced continuation of an argument. When Roarke cupped her elbow, she deliberately jerked it away, let her voice spike up.

“Don’t try to placate me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Two,” he said to the hostess who, admirably, kept her face blank and polite. “Roarke.”

“Yes, sir, of course. I have your booth ready. Just this way.”

“You know the kind of pressure I’m dealing with,” Eve continued, keeping her eyes on Roarke. “The commander’s setting up permanent residence on my ass.”

“It would be a lovely change of pace if we could spend one bloody evening not discussing your commander, your problems. Whiskey,” he told the hostess. “A double.”

“And for you, madam?”

“Head Shot, straight up.”

Roarke leaned into her as if murmuring something, and she jerked back. “Because I need it, that’s why. Look, I’m here, aren’t I? Which is more than you’ll be tomorrow since you’re leaving town. Again.”