J. Robb - Judgment in Death

She was going to straighten this out, she told herself. Yes, she was. And if she had to get Roarke into bed to do it, well… the sacrifices she had to make.

That made her snort with laughter and settle back to enjoy the ride.

New York looked so cheerful, she decided. The glidecarts were doing brisk business, as the pedestrian traffic was thick. The street thieves, she thought with mild affection, were having a field day plucking the tourists and the unwary.

Greasy smoke stinking of overcooked soy dogs and rehydrated onion bits plumed in front of her car. Two street LCs were in a shoving match on the corner of Sixth and Sixty-second while a hopeful John cheered them on. One Rapid Cab tried a sneak maneuver around another, missed, and scraped fenders. The two drivers were out of the cars like jacks from the box, squaring off with fists.

God. She loved New York.

She watched a flock of the head-shaven Pure Sect, well out of their bailiwick, herd each other uptown. An ad blimp, past curfew, glided overhead and touted the delights of a package trip to Vegas II. Four days, three nights, round-trip and deluxe accommodations for two, all for the low-low-low price of twelve thousand and eighty-five.

What a deal.

The blimp chugged its way downtown as she continued up.

The pedestrian traffic thinned out and trimmed up. The glide-carts took on a sheen.

Welcome to Roarke's world, she thought, amused at herself.

As she approached the gates, a figure stepped into the path of her vehicle. Eve let out a yelp, and fortunately, the programming accessed the obstruction and hit the brakes. Mild annoyance turned to disgust when Webster stepped out of the shadows.

She rolled down her window, glared at him. "You got a death wish? This is a city vehicle, and I was on auto."

"Good thing, as you look a little impaired." Sleepy, he thought. Sleepy, smashed, and sexy. "Night on the town?"

"Bite me, Webster. What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you." He glanced at the gates. "It's not easy getting into this place. How about a lift?"

"I don't want you in my house."

The engaging smile he'd fixed on his face hardened. "Ten minutes, Dallas. I promise not to steal the silver."

"I have an office at Central. Make an appointment."

"If it wasn't important, do you think I'd be hanging out in front of your house waiting to give you a chance to bust my balls?"

She wished she didn't see the logic of that. Wished she wasn't sober enough to resist the urge to roll the window up and leave him outside the gates. She jerked a thumb toward the passenger seat. While he walked around the car to get in, it occurred to her that for the last few hours, murder hadn't entered her head.

"It better be important, Webster. If you're hosing me, I'm going to do a lot more than bust your balls."

She completed the turn toward the gates. Her vehicle ID was scanned, and they opened silently.

"Pretty heavy security for a residence," he commented.

She didn't nibble at that particular bait, but she wished she'd gone for both Sober-Ups so her mind would be absolutely clear.

She left the car at the end of the drive, led the way up the steps. He was doing his best not to gape at the house but didn't manage to swallow the low whistle when she opened the front door.

"I've got a meeting," she said, even as Summerset stepped into view and opened his mouth.

With her hands jammed in her pockets, she headed upstairs. Webster gave up, stared down at the elegant butler, scanned what he could see of the lower floor. "Some place. I'm trying to picture you in this palace. You never struck me as the princess type."

But when he stepped into her office, one Roarke had modeled to reflect her previous apartment, he nodded. "This is more like it. Streamlined and practical."

"Now that I have your approval, spill it. I've got work to do."

"You had time to go out and knock a few back tonight."

She angled her head, folded her arms. "Are you under the impression you have any say in what I do with my time, on or off the job?"

"Just an observation." He prowled the room, picking up, setting back, items at random, then nearly jolted when he saw the enormous cat curled up in his sleep chair and watching him out of narrowed bicolored eyes.

"Palace guard?"

"Damn right. One word from me, and he'll claw your eyes out and eat your tongue. Don't make me set him off."

He laughed, ordered himself to relax. "Got any coffee?"

"Yes." She stood just where she was.

He laughed again, a short, resigned sound. "I was going to say you used to be friendlier, but you weren't. Something about that mean streak of yours always did it for me. I must be sick."

"Get to the point, or get out."

He nodded, yet still he stalled, walking to her window, staring out. "Your current avenues of investigation are infringing on an IAB movement."

"Aw, I feel so bad about that."

"I warned them about you. They didn't listen. Had this idea that you could be handled." He turned back, met her eyes. "I'm here to order you off Ricker."

"You have no authority to order me off anything."

"Request," he amended. "I'm here to request you back off your investigation of Max Ricker."

"Request denied."

"Dallas, you push the wrong buttons, you could screw up an investigation that's been in the works for months."

"An internal investigation?"

"I'm not at liberty to confirm or deny."

"Then leave."

"I'm trying to give you a hand here. If you just back off, we'll both end up getting what we're after."

She eased a hip on the edge of her desk. "I want a cop killer. What do you want?"

"You think it doesn't matter to me." His voice took on heat. His eyes flashed with it. "The way those two men went down?"

"I don't know what matters to you, Webster. Why don't you tell me?"

"Doing the job," he shot back. "Making sure the job gets done right, and it gets done clean."

"And Mills and Kohli were dirty."

He started to speak, then jammed his fists in his pockets. "I can't comment."

"I don't need your comments. IAB might have its reasons for wanting to keep that information under wraps for now. Fine. As it happens, so do I. But it's not going to stay under. The connection to Ricker's going to explode before much longer. How many more dead cops do you want me to stand over while you guys dick around with your internal investigation? You knew they were dirty, and you left them out there."

"It's not as black and white as that."

"You knew," she repeated, heating up. "And that they were in Ricker's pocket, that they'd helped him slide on charges that should have put him in for the rest of his unnatural life. How long have you known?"

"Knowing isn't proving, is it, Lieutenant?"

"Bullshit, Webster. That's just bullshit. In a matter of days I've put together enough on those two cops to have pulled them in and taken their badges. You left them out for a reason. Now you want me to back off Ricker. How do I know he hasn't made room in his pocket for you?"

His eyes flashed again, and he was on her before he could stop himself, dragging her off the desk. "That's low."

"IAB gives lessons in low."

"You want to go through the door with a dirty cop? With one who might hesitate just long enough to have you on a slab? There's a reason for what I do, and I don't have to justify it to you. You used to draw a hard, straight line, Dallas. When did it start to go crooked? About the time you hooked up with Roarke?"

"Step back. Now."

But he didn't. Couldn't. "Mills was garbage. You want to risk destroying the case we've been building for months so you can stand for him? He'd have sold you out for pocket change."

"Now he's dead. Is that IAB's sense of justice, to have your guts spilled out for being on the take? If Ricker took him out, he used another cop to do it. Does that balance it in your world?"