J. Robb - Immortal in Death

"Five minutes. Goddamn it, Dallas. Five lousy minutes." Which meant, Eve knew, hundreds of ratings points and thousands of dollars.

"I can do five – if and when. I can't promise you more."

"It'll be when." Satisfied, Nadine got out, then leaned on the door. "You know, Dallas, you just don't miss. It'll be when. You've got a knack for the dead and the innocent."

The dead and the innocent, Eve thought with a shudder as she drove away. She knew that too many of the dead were the guilty.

There was moonlight drizzling through the sky window over the bed when Roarke shifted away from Eve. It was a new experience for him, the nerves before, during, after lovemaking. There were dozens of reasons, or so he told himself as she curled against him, as was her habit. The house was full of people. Leonardo's motley team had taken over an entire wing with their mania. He had several projects and deals at varying stages of development, business he was determined to close before the wedding.

There was the wedding itself. Surely a man was entitled to be a bit distracted at such a time.

But he was, at least with himself, a brutally honest man. There was only one reason for the nerves. That was the image that continually leapt into his mind of Eve, battered and bloodied and broken.

And the terror that by touching her he might bring it all back, turn something beautiful into the beastly.

Beside him she stirred, then pushed herself up to look down at him. Her face was still flushed, her eyes dark. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say to you."

He trailed a finger along her jaw. "About?"

"I'm not fragile. There's no reason for you to treat me as if I'm wounded."

His brows drew together, the annoyance self-directed. He hadn't realized he was that transparent, even with her. And the sensation didn't sit well. "I don't know what you mean." He started to get up, with the idea of pouring a drink he didn't want, but she took a firm grip on his arm.

"Avoidance isn't your usual style, Roarke." It worried her. "If your feelings have changed because of what I did, what I remembered – "

"Don't be insulting." He snapped it out, and the temper kindling in his eyes was a great relief to her.

"What am I supposed to think? This is the first time you've touched me since that night. It was more like nursing than – "

"You have a problem with tenderness?"

He was clever, she thought. Calm or aroused, he knew how to turn things to his own favor. She kept her hand on his arm, her eyes level with his. "Do you think I can't tell you're holding back? I don't want you to hold back. I'm fine."

"I'm not." He jerked his arm free. "I'm not. Some of us are a little more human, need a little more time. Leave it alone."

His words were a sharp slap on a naked cheek. She nodded once, slid down into bed, and turned away from him. "All right. But what happened to me when I was a child wasn't sex. It was an obscenity." She closed her eyes tight and willed herself to sleep.

When her 'link beeped, it was barely dawn. Eyes still closed, Eve reached out. "Block video. Dallas."

"Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Dispatch. Probable homicide, male, rear of 19 One hundred eighth Street. Proceed immediately."

Nerves churned in Eve's stomach. She wasn't on rotation, shouldn't have been called. "Cause of death?"

"Apparent beating. Victim not yet identified due to facial injuries."

"Acknowledged. Goddamn it." She threw her legs over the side of the bed and blinked when she saw Roarke was already up and getting dressed. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you to a murder scene."

"You're a civilian. You don't have any business at a murder scene."

He merely shot her a look as she tugged on jeans. "Your vehicle is in repair, Lieutenant." He had some small satisfaction of hearing her mutter oaths as she remembered. "I'll drive you. Drop you," he qualified. "On my way to the office."

"Suit yourself." She shrugged on her weapon harness.

It was a miserable neighborhood. Several buildings were decorated with vicious graffiti, broken glass, and the tattered signs the city used to condemn them. Of course, people still lived in them, huddled in filthy rooms, avoiding the patrols, blissing out on whatever substance offered the most kick.

There were neighborhoods like it all over the world, Roarke thought as he stood in the thin sunlight behind the police barricade. He had grown up in one not so different, though it had been three thousand miles across the Atlantic.

He understood the life here, the despair, the deals, just as he understood the violence that had led to the result Eve was even now examining.

As he watched her, along with the derelicts, the sleepy street whores, the miserably curious, he realized he understood her as well.

Her movements were brisk, her face impassive. But there was pity in her eyes as they studied what had once been a man. She was, he thought, capable, strong, and resilient. Whatever wounds she had, she would live with. She didn't need him to heal, but to accept.

"Not your usual milieu, Roarke."

Roarke glanced down as Feeney stepped up beside him. "I've been to worse."

"Haven't we all." Feeney sighed and took a wrapped Danish out of his pocket. "Breakfast?"

"I'll pass. You go ahead."

Feeney downed the pastry in three whopping bites. "Better go see what our girl's up to." He walked through the barricade, tapping his chest where his badge was fixed to settle the nervous uniforms guarding the scene.

"Lucky the media hasn't come in yet," he commented.

Eve flicked a glance up. "Not much interest in a murder in this neighborhood – at least not until the how leaks." Her clear-coated hands were already smeared with blood as she knelt beside the body. "Got the pictures?" At the nod from the video tech, she slid her hands under the body. "Let's turn him over, Feeney."

He'd fallen, or had been left facedown, and had leaked a great deal of blood and brains from the fist-sized hole in the back of his head. The flip side wasn't any prettier.

"No ID," Eve reported. "Peabody's inside the building doing door to door, see if we can come up with anyone who knows him or saw anything."

Feeney shifted his gaze to the rear of the building. There were a couple of windows, filthy glass heavily grilled. He skimmed the concrete yard where they crouched. There was a recycler, broken, a grab bag of garbage, junk, rusted metal.

"Not much of a view," he commented. "We tag him yet?"

"I took prints. One of the uniforms is running them now. Weapon's already bagged. Iron pipe tossed under the recycler." Eyes narrowed, she studied the body. "He didn't leave a weapon with Boomer or Hetta Moppett. It's obvious why he left one at Leonardo's. Now he's playing with us, Feeney, tossing it where a blind frog would hop to it. What do you make of this guy?" She snapped a finger under a wide, neon-pink suspender.

Feeney grunted. The corpse was decked out in full fashion. Pegged knee shorts in rainbow stripes, moon glow T-shirt, expensive beaded sandals.

"Had money to waste on bad clothes." Feeney studied the building again. "If he lived here, he wasn't putting it into real estate."

"Dealer," Eve decided. "Midlevel. You live here because your business is here." She rose, smearing blood from her hands onto her jeans, as a uniform approached.

"Got a match, Lieutenant. Victim is ID'd as Lament Ro, aka Cockroach. He's got a long sheet. Mostly under Illegals. Possession, manufacturing with intent, a couple of assaults."

"Anybody use him? He weasel for anyone?"

"That data didn't come up."

She glanced at Feeney who acknowledged the silent request with a grunt. He'd dig and find out. "Okay, let's bag him and ship him. I want a tox report. Let the sweepers in here."