J. Robb - Creation In Death

Forty-seven hours missing, Eve thought. But he wouldn’t start it ticking until he got down to it. Number two always started after number one was finished.

She didn’t hear Roarke come in, he had a skill for silence. But she sensed him. “Maybe we’ll get lucky,” she said. “Maybe he won’t start on her until tomorrow. We’ve got another angle to work this time, so we could get lucky.”

“She’s gone. You know it.”

Eve turned. He looked angry, she thought, which was probably a good thing, and just a little worn around the edges, which was a rare one. “I don’t know it until I’m standing over her body. That’s the way I’m dealing with it. We’re going home. We can work from home.”

He closed the door behind him. “I looked her up. She’s worked for me for nearly four years. Her parents are divorced. She has a younger brother, a half brother, a stepsister. She went to college in Baltimore, where her mother and younger brother still live. Her employee evaluations have been, consistently, excellent. She was given a raise three weeks ago.”

“You know this isn’t your fault.”

“Fault?” He could be faulted for a great deal, he knew and accepted that. But not for this. “No. But somewhere in it, I may very well be the reason these particular women die at this particular time.”

“Reason has nothing to do with it. You’re no good to me if you screw yourself up with misplaced guilt. You do that, you’re out.”

“You can’t push me out,” he countered, with considerable heat. “With or without your bleeding task force, your sodding procedure, I’m bloody well in this.”

“Fine. Waste time pissing on me then.” She grabbed her coat. “That’s helpful.”

She started to shove by him, but he grabbed her arm, swung her around. For an instant the rage was carved into his face. Then he yanked her against him, banded his arms around her.

“I have to piss on someone. You’re handy.”

“Maybe.” She let herself relax against him. “Okay, maybe. But you have to think in a clear line with this. I need your brain, as well as your resources. It’s another advantage we didn’t have nine years ago.”

“Knowing you’re right doesn’t make it easier to swallow. I’ve got to get out of this place,” he said as he eased back. “That’s God’s shining truth. I can only breathe in cop for so long without choking.”

“Hey.”

He tapped his finger on her chin. “Excepting one.”

She hauled up the file bag she wanted to take with her. “Let’s go.”

She drove primarily because she knew the battle uptown would keep her awake. A hot shower, she thought, something quick and solid in her stomach, and she’d be good to go for a few more hours.

“Summerset would be useful,” Roarke considered.

“As what, a hockey stick?”

“The employee files, Eve. He can run those, generate a list of women who fit this pattern who work for me. It would free my time up for other things.”

“All right, as long as he understands he answers to me. And that I get to debase him and ream him out as is often necessary with those under my command. And adds some entertainment to my day.”

“Because you’re so good at it.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a knack.” She scanned the army of vehicles heading north, the throngs of pedestrians hustling along on the sidewalk, the glides, or bullying their way on the crosswalks. “Nobody notices things-other people. Sure, if somebody jumps out of a building and lands on their head, it gives them a moment’s pause, but they don’t click to a woman being forced into a car or a van or Christ knows unless she puts up one hell of a stink about it. Mostly, they just keep their heads down and keep going.”

“Cynicism is another of your finely tuned skills. It’s not always so, not with everyone.”

She shrugged. “No, not always. He’s slick about it, or has some cover, something people don’t register. If she kicked up enough fuss, yeah, somebody would notice. They might not do anything about it, but they’d notice. So no overt struggle on the street. One of the working theories is he drugs them somehow rather than overpowers them.

“Quick jab,” she added. “Wraps an arm around her. ‘Hey, Sari, how you doing?’ Just a guy walking along with some zoned-out woman, helping her into his ride. Ride would need to be close to wherever he picks her up. Going to hit lots and garages tomorrow.”

When she drove through the gates of home, she couldn’t remember ever being more grateful to see the jut and spread of the gorgeous house, to see the lights in the windows.

“Going to grab a shower, grab something to eat in my office.”

“You’re going to grab some sleep,” he corrected. “You’re burnt, Eve.”

No question she was, but it annoyed her to have it pointed out. “I got some left.”

“Bollocks. You haven’t slept in more than thirty-six hours. Neither have I, come to that. We both need some sleep.”

“I’ll take a couple hours after I set up a board here, review some notes.”

Rather than argue-he was too bloody tired to bother-he said nothing. He’d just dump her into bed bodily, and he imagined once she was horizontal for thirty seconds, she’d be unconscious.

She parked in front of the house, grabbed her file bag.

She knew Summerset would be in the foyer, and he didn’t disappoint. “Fill your personal cadaver in,” Eve said before Summerset could speak. “I’m hitting the showers before I get started on this.”

She headed straight up, neglecting to take off her coat and sling it over the newel as was her habit. And which, she knew, irritated Summerset’s bony ass. Once she was out of sight, she rubbed at her gritty eyes, and allowed the yawn that had been barely suppressed to escape.

The shower was going to feel like a miracle.

She dumped the bag in the bedroom, shrugged out of her coat. As she hit the release on her weapon harness, her gaze landed on the bed. Maybe five minutes down, she considered. Five off her feet, then she could shower without risking drowning herself.

Tossing the harness aside, she climbed the platform where the bed spread like the silk clouds of heaven. She slid onto it, stretching out across it, facedown.

And beat Roarke’s guess by being out in ten seconds flat.

He came in five minutes later, saw her on the bed, with the cat slung across her ass. “Well, then,” Roarke addressed Galahad. “At least we won’t have to fight about it. But for Christ’s sake, couldn’t she have pulled off her boots? How can she sleep well like that?”

He pulled them off himself-and she didn’t stir a bit-pulled off his own. Then he simply stretched out beside her, draped an arm around her waist.

He dropped out nearly as quickly as she had.

IN THE DREAM THERE WAS A WHITE SHEET OVER the dark ground, and the ruined body that lay on it. Bitter with cold, dawn carved its first light, etching the eastern spires into sharpened silhouettes.

She stood with her hands in the pockets of a black peacoat, a black watch cap pulled low on her forehead.

The body lay between her and a big black clock with a big white face. The seconds ticked away on it, and every strike was like thunder that sent the air to quaking.

And in the dream Feeney stood beside her. The harsh crime scene lights washed over them and what they studied. There was no silver in his hair to glint in those lights, and the lines in his face didn’t ride so deep.

I trained you for this, so you could see what needs to be seen, and find what’s under it.

She crouched down, opened her kit.

She doesn’t look peaceful, Eve thought, as people so often said about the repose of the dead. They really never do.