J. Robb - Creation In Death

Her desk took another slam with her boot. “I just lumped him in with everyone else, didn’t take into account that he’d led the first investigation. All I had to do was pull him aside, tell him, ‘Hey, we’ve got something fresh.’ Give him a little time to take it in.”

“He didn’t react well, I take it?”

“Who could blame him?” she tossed back. Her tired eyes were dark with regret. “Jumped on me with both feet. And what do I do? I get my back up, that’s what I do. Can’t just say, hey, I’m sorry, I got caught up in the roll and didn’t think it through. No, can’t say that. Oh well, shit!”

She covered her face a moment, heeled away the tears that got away from her. “This isn’t good.”

“Baby, you’re so tired.”

“So the fuck what? So I’m tired, that’s the job, that’s the way it is. Tired means nothing. I bitch slapped him, Roarke. I told him to take a break, to go home. Why didn’t I just knock him down and rub his face in it while I was at it?”

“Did he need a break, Eve?”

“That’s not the point.”

“It certainly is.”

Now she sighed. “Just because it was the right call doesn’t mean it was right. He said I didn’t respect him, and that’s not true. That’s so far from any truth, but I didn’t show him respect. I told you before, the other one was on him-that’s command. All I did by handling it this way was add to that weight.”

“Sit down. Oh, for Christ’s sake, sit for five minutes.” He strode over, all but lifted her bodily into her chair. “I know something about command, and it’s often not pretty, nor comfortable, and very often it’s not fair. But someone had to make the calls, the decisions. Maybe you didn’t account for his feelings, and you can regret that if it helps you. But the simple fact is, you had a great deal more on your mind than coddling Feeney.”

“It’s not coddling.”

“And he had a great deal on his, and obviously needed to vent some of the pressure,” Roarke continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Which he did, quite handily, I’d say, on you. Now you’re both feeling sorry for yourselves.”

Her mouth dropped open in sheer shock for two seconds, then twisted into a snarl. “Bite me.”

“I hope to have the energy for that at some point in the near future. You told him to go home because you understood, even if you were angry and hurt, you understood he needed to step away for a time. He went because he understood, even being angry and hurt, that he needed to. So, mission accomplished, and I imagine sometime tomorrow, you’ll both clean up the fallout and forget it. Correct?”

She sniffled, scowled. “Well, if you want to be all insightful and reasonable about it.”

“He loves you.”

“Oh, jeez.”

Roarke had to laugh. “And you love him. If you were just cops to each other, it might still be a bit tricky. Add love, and it’s a very thorny path the two of you walk when you’re entrenched in something like this.”

From where she sat she could still kick her desk. She did so, but lightly this time. “You sound like Mira 101.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Any better?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She pressed her hands to her temples. “My head’s killing me.”

He merely reached into his pocket, took out a tiny case. Thumbing it open, he held it out to her. She frowned down at the little blue pills. Standard blocker, she knew, just as she knew he’d nag her to take one if she balked-which would only make the headache worse. Or he’d just force one down her throat, which was a humiliation she didn’t want to risk so close on the heels of pity tears.

She took one, popped it.

“There’s a good girl.”

“I repeat: Bite me.”

He pulled her up, pulled her in. Nipped her bottom lip. “Just a preview of things to come.”

Since it was there, she touched his face. “You looked a little worn and down before, too.”

“I was feeling that way. Worn and down.” He rested his brow on hers a moment. “Let’s go have a sandwich and some decent coffee.”

McNab signaled the minute they walked back in.

“Getting some beeps here.”

“Wipe the mustard off your face, Detective.”

“Oh, sorry.” He swiped at it with the back of his hands. “Started the Ted search at the branch where Rossi works,” he began. “Got guys that fit the height and weight, but not the age, fit the age, but not otherwise. Fanned out to other branches. This Pi’s being really trim about it. But still nothing that really rings the bell. So I moved out to the boroughs.”

“Bottom-line it, McNab.”

“Okay, I’ve got a few-nobody named Ted-but a few who fall into the description you may want to have checked out. But they don’t fit the profile. We got married guys, with kids, grandkids, and no property like we’re thinking listed under their name or names of family members I’ve dug up so far.”

“And those are my beeps.”

“No. I started thinking, hey, let’s try the locales of the other murders. Hit Florida first, and got us a beep.”

He called the data on screen. “Membership in the name of Edward Nave. DOB June 8, 1989-down on the age-and the membership required a workup, so we’ve got his height-down with that-weight-a few pounds lighter, but you gotta figure on some flux. Oh, and Peabody says that Ted’s a nickname for Edward, so-”

“Address.”

“Yeah, that’s a problem. Address is bogus. He lists a Florida addy that would have him setting up in Miami’s Grand Opera House. I checked it out.”

“Bring up his ID.”

“Okay.” McNab pulled at his heavily decorated ear. “Problem number two. I can give you a fistful of Edward Naves, but none of their ID data matches the membership data.”

“Copy me on them anyway. We’ll run them down. How long has he held the membership? When did he pick it up in Florida?”

“Five years. About three months before the first murder there. It’s him, Dallas.” Conviction pushed through McNab’s voice, hardened his face. “Gotta go with the gut on it, but he’s covered it.”

“We’re going to uncover it.” She looked at Roarke. “This franchise in Europe?”

“It is.”

“Start searching the memberships in the other target cities. Maybe, just maybe, this was one of his trolling tools.”

She started to go to her own station. She’d dig into Florida again, she decided, see if she could find any connection between the fitness center and any of the victims there. A member, one of the staff, cleaning crew.

“Eve.” Mira stood up, and the look in her eyes had Eve’s stomach sinking. “I’ve been trying to contact an Ariel Greenfeld. She’s a baker at a place called Your Affair downtown. She doesn’t answer the ’link numbers listed on her information. I’ve just spoken with her emergency contact, a neighbor. Greenfeld hasn’t been back to her apartment since she left for work this morning.”

“Get me the address.” She started to tell Peabody to get moving, then stopped. She’d made a mistake with Feeney, there was no point in giving out another personal slap. “Roarke and I will check it out. Unless notified, all team members are to go the hell home by twenty-three hundred or hit the crib. Report back at oh-eight-hundred for first briefing. Anything, absolutely anything pops meanwhile, I’m the first to know.”

A s they headed toward Ariel’s apartment, Eve glanced at Roarke. His face was unreadable, but she understood it. Guilt, worry, questions.

“What’s Your Affair?”

“An event shop. Ah…upscale, everything you might need under one roof. A variety of specialty boutiques-attire, floral and planting, bakery, catering, decor, event planners. It was something I thought of when we were dealing with our wedding. Why go to all these places, all these people, if you can go to one location and find effectively everything you’d need. And if you want something else, there are consultants who’ll find that something else for you.”