Apprentice in Death (31 page)

“I'll be here when you're done.”

“Peabody, let's get this over with.”

“I'm skipping the media deal. I'm finishing the paperwork. I want to go home, too,” Peabody said before Eve could object. “They don't need me in the media center, and I need to tie this up. I really need to tie it up and put it away.”

Eve looked at her partner's tired face, hollow eyes. “Okay. Good work, Peabody.”

“Good work all around.”

With a nod, Eve headed out to give New York a face, such as it
was.

The media circus could have been worse. She'd had worse. Since Kyung, the media liaison—who wasn't an asshole—told her to use her own words and judgment, she gave what she felt was a straightforward statement.

“Through the efforts of the NYPSD, its officers and technicians, two individuals have been identified, apprehended, and charged with the twenty-five murders and numerous injuries incurred as a result of the attacks at Wollman Rink, Times Square, and Madison Square Garden. Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, have confessed to these crimes, and as the investigation also uncovered their plans to target others, confessed to same.”

Of course that wasn't enough—it never seemed to be enough. She answered questions, some salient, some stupendously stupid. She answered those that targeted Willow's age.

“Yes, Willow Mackie is fifteen. At fifteen she killed twenty-five people in cold blood. The investigation uncovered her plan to kill more,
including her own mother and her seven-year-old half brother. Due to the nature of her crimes, she will be tried as an adult.”

When pressed, she gave a bare-bones summary of Willow's arrest, then had to pull back a flash of temper when one of the reporters shouted out:

“My information is Willow Mackie was injured during her arrest. Was this retaliation for allegedly killing a cop?”

“Have you ever had a flash grenade tossed in your general direction? No? Ever had somebody in full body armor firing a laser rifle, a handheld, a blaster at you? Missed those, too? Every member of the team involved in apprehending the individual charged with twenty-five murders, including Officer Kevin Russo, put their lives at risk to protect and serve. Every member of the team acted and reacted in a lawful and appropriate matter to the threat, as the record of the arrest will show. Now if you—”

“Follow-up!” Nadine called out, interrupting what would likely have been an unwise assessment of the previous reporter's intelligence. “Lieutenant Dallas, did you incur your very visible injuries during the arrest of Willow Mackie?”

“She objected, violently, to being arrested.”

“Would that include what appears to be a severe gash on your hand? Did she also have a knife?”

“Yes, and yes. I guess I forgot to ask if any of you have ever had someone try to slit your throat with a combat knife. She missed. If any of you want to play up the angle of her age, like we should sympathize, just make sure you include the names of the twenty-five. Ellissa Wyman, Brent Michaelson . . .” she began, and named every one.

“That's all you get.”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” Tibble stepped forward, gave the entire room the hard eye until everyone settled. “I have personally reviewed recordings taken from Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody,
Lieutenant Lowenbaum, and others during the confrontation and arrest of Willow Mackie. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and a civilian consultant all received direct strikes deployed by Willow Mackie, and were spared serious injury only due to their body armor.”

He allowed just a hint of temper to show as he turned the hard eye on the original questioner.

“Age doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot, in my opinion, when you're armed with laser rifles, flash grenades, and you know how to use them. More, if you use them to strike at civilians, at police officers, and rack up kills like trophies. Lieutenant Dallas and her team risked their lives today, as they do every day, to save yours, to save your spouses, your sons and daughters, your friends and neighbors. If anyone wishes to question the necessary actions of the courageous men and women who risked all to stop that unconscionable number at twenty-five, talk to me.

“Lieutenant Dallas, you're dismissed, with gratitude.”

“Sir.”

She got out, got the hell out, pitifully grateful Roarke was right there waiting for her.

In the car, she put her head back, closed her eyes. “There'll be others who'll pull that.”

“If you mean using her age to pump up a story, or the fact that she got a few bumps during the arrest, yes, I expect so. Just as I know they'll be drowned out. Put it away, darling.”

“Tibble was pissed. You don't see that every day.”

“The fact he was, and let it show, has impact. You knew all twenty-five names.”

“Some things stick with you.”

He let her rest, hoped she slept, but she shifted, sat up as he drove through the gates.

“You're going to want me to eat, but I feel a little off. I don't know if I can deal with food.”

“Maybe a little soup. It'll help you sleep.”

Maybe, she thought, but . . . “Don't tranq it.”

“I won't.”

She leaned on him as they walked to the front door, leaned as exhaustion crept back inch by inch. Because it's done, she told herself. Because it's over.

Summerset and Galahad stood in the foyer, as they might after any workday. But it wasn't any day. She could have pulled out an insult, to make it more ordinary, but Summerset had wrestled with his own trauma.

She didn't have it in her.

Apparently, neither did he.

He scanned her face, the bruises, but didn't smirk or comment.

“Will you let me tend to your injuries, Lieutenant?”

“I just want to sleep.”

He nodded, looked at Roarke. “Are you hurt?”

“No. You look better.”

“I'm fine. We've had quiet times, the cat and I. Now you'll have your own. There's chicken soup, with noodles. I thought soothing would be best after this day.”

“Thanks for that.” Roarke wrapped an arm around Eve's waist, turned her toward the stairs.

“Lieutenant?”

She glanced back, so tired now she nearly floated. “Evil doesn't have an age.”

“No. No, it really doesn't.”

She thought briefly of her home office, of checking on the paperwork, but couldn't do it. Not now, not yet.

“Just an hour down,” she told Roarke as they turned into the bedroom. “Then I'll think about food and the rest. Just an hour down first.”

“I could use that myself.”

The cat leaped on the bed as they undressed, bumped his head against her side as she crawled into bed. She gave him a couple of strokes, found it comforting. More comforting yet when he curled his tubby body into the small of her back.

And perfect, finally perfect, when Roarke slid in beside her, drew her close.

She ached, everywhere, from the bruises, from fatigue, from the headache drumming behind her eyes.

But held between two loves, she slept.

And slept straight through until the first narrow break of dawn.

Disoriented, she stared over to where Roarke sat—not in business mode, but elegantly casual, working by the light of his PPC.

The cat had taken over Roarke's spot on the bed, stretched out luxuriously.

Eve started to speak, found her throat bitterly dry. “What?” she managed. “What time?”

“Early.” Roarke set aside his PPC, rose. “Lights on ten percent. That eye's more colorful, but we'll work on it now. Let's have a look at the rest.”

He whipped the covers off.

“Hey!”

“As I suspected. You've quite an assortment. We'll wand you, and try the jet tub.”

“Coffee. Just coffee.”

“Not just, but that as well. Maybe some scrambled eggs and toast to start, see how that settles.”

“I'm not sick.” She sat up, winced. “Maybe sore.”

“So the wand, the jets, the food. Otherwise I'll devil you into taking a blocker, and we'd both rather I didn't have to.”

She couldn't argue with that. Besides, the healing wand eased some of the soreness, and the tub—along with whatever he put in the water—helped more.

And the coffee helped everything.

She ate the eggs, which settled fine. In fact they woke up her appetite. “Now I'm starving.”

He turned to her, caught her face in his hand, kissed her. Long, soft, deep.

“Well, that's not what I was hungry for. But now that you mention it, I think I'm up to it.”

“We'll give those bruises a little longer to heal.” But he kept her face framed in his hands, kissed her again. “I'm just glad to see you.”

“Where did I go?”

“Darling Eve, you had grief behind your eyes. So much grief and fatigue. It's gone now.”

“I just needed sleep. And you. And the cat.” She let out a long breath. “And this.”

Now he pressed his lips to her forehead. “There's one more thing you might want. Come with me.”

“I was thinking I want pancakes.”

“We can get to that.” He pulled her to the elevator and in. Programmed the destination manually.

“A swim would be good,” she considered. “Might help work out the stiffness.”

When the doors opened she was, for the second time that morning, disoriented. “How many rooms do you . . .”

She trailed off as her gaze arrowed in on the wide U, studded with controls, the sleek leather chair in its curve.

“Command center. Holy shit, holy shit!”

It was, sort of, like walking into the design he'd shown her only days before. The walls painted that quiet, easy color that wasn't exactly green, wasn't exactly gray. And the absolute magnificence of her new workstation, an entire wall of screens.

“Did I sleep for a week?”

“You've been out of the office, so to speak, for a few days. And the crew took advantage. Double shifts. There are still some details, some work, but it's up and running.”

“That?” She pointed at the big, wide U of deep—maybe
commanding
—brown with its flecks and veins of dark green and that not-quite-green base for an array of controls. “That's up and running?”

“I figured that would be your priority. Test it out.”

She beelined for it, absolutely delighting him. Ran a hand over the stone, studied the controls. “How do I . . .” She laid her hand on a palm screen.

It hummed, but did nothing.

“You haven't told it what to do, have you?” Amused, Roarke joined her.

“Like . . . Open operations?”

The command center came to life, controls flashing on, glinting like jewels—the sort of jewels she appreciated most.

Operations open, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

“Holy shit,” she said again. “Just like that.”

“I had a bit of time this morning. It'll take a bit more to transfer everything to your comfort zone, but yes, just like that.”

“Okay, open file, Mackie, Willow.”

Accessing. Where would you like the data displayed?

“Wall screen.”

As she hadn't designated one section, the entire wall filled with data.

“Wow. Ah, display final report by Peabody, Detective Delia. She finished it,” Eve noted when it flashed on. “She wrote it up, filed it. Done.”

Roarke kissed the top of her head. “Done.”

“Wait.” She dropped into the chair, a chair of rich forest-green leather, said, “
Ahh
.” Swiveled. “Oh, this is
it
. Seriously it. The redhead with the tits and the boots knows her stuff. I could play with this all day. I'll need to play with this all day to get up to speed. What else can it—”

“Everything you need. But you might want to take a glance, at least, at the rest.”

She swiveled again, surveyed the room.

The seating area worried her a little. It looked entirely too comfortable with its long, low sofa in forest-shadows green. But not fancy or frilly, even with a couple of pillows tossed on it. A new sleep chair, which Galahad had claimed already.

She rose, wandered, found her board—she only had to roll it out of the slot in the wall.

A kitchen area, updated big-time—shiny, yes, but simple.

And simple again, an arrangement of floating shelves—probably real wood, she mused—holding some of her useless but prized things.

The stuffed Galahad Roarke had given her, the statue of the goddess was a gift from Peabody's mother, a sheriff's badge, a fancy magnifying glass, a photograph of her and Roarke taken when they'd been banged up some after an arrest, and smiling at each other.

He'd added art—or the designer had—which hadn't been run by her. But . . . how could she argue with the framed cityscapes? Her city.

Their city.

She frowned at the thick green plastic boards over what was obviously a wide hole in the side of the room. “What happened there?”

“It's more what's happening. As I said, there are details yet. This is something extra. When it's done, the dining area goes in front of what will be glass. You open the glass and you'll be able to step out onto a small terrace. I thought you'd enjoy that. We'd enjoy eating here with the glass open in fine weather.”

We, she thought. He'd designed the old office for her.

This one was for them.

“You were right, and not just because it looks really good. You were right because it's my space, sure, but it's for both of us. You were right, it was time.”

“Remember you said that when we start on the bedroom.”

“Not going to think about that. This is much too frosty. Now I need to start playing with my command center.”

“I'll give you some pointers, then leave you to it for a couple hours. That's about what we have before we need to leave for Bella's party.”

“The what?” Already halfway across the room, she stopped, turned on her heel. “Oh, but . . . Look, don't you think we could skip that? I mean, bruised up, tired out, saved New York? She's not going to notice or care if we're around. She's one.”

“I know as little as you about the mind of a one-year-old. But I know Mavis.”

“Crap, crap, crap. We have to go.” Shoving at her hair, Eve sent the command center a look of longing. “Okay. So we go for, say, an hour, ninety minutes tops, then we come back. Take that swim. We can have pool sex.”