Random in Death (In Death, #58)

by J.D. Robb

She held out a hand to shake on it. “Give me a little spread on the exact level of graciously.” He took her hand, kissed it. “I’ll grade on the curve.” “Did we just avoid a big, ugly fight?” “I’d say we cut short a spat.”

Spat’s a stupid word for actual adult people. We had a pissing match. Done now. Let’s eat.” “Intrigued,” Roarke repeated...

“Did you ever think you’d pass the time after a meal updating a murder board?” “Not in my wildest.”

He had her system down, she thought. Yeah, he knew who she was, what she was, how she thought, what she felt. Sometimes, she figured he knew all that better than she did. Or at least more clearly. And he loved her anyway. She walked over, put her arms around him, hugged hard and tight.

And saw a uniform on a door. “Never mind. I’ve got her.” As Eve started down, the nurse called out, “Hey! You can’t just—” “Watch me. Officer. Kiki Rosenburg.” “Her parents just got here, Lieutenant.

Eve is such a baddie I love her

He laid a hand on his heart. “The personal sacrifices we make in the pursuit of justice.” “Huh. I was told shortly ago that all cops are assholes.” “Sometimes you need an asshole to pursue justice.”

On the sidewalk, just after one in the morning, on a hot, sticky summer night, she wrapped her arms around him. She kissed him long, slow, deep. Pressing in more when she felt his hand fist on the back of her jacket. “All that,” he murmured, “for arranging a viewing?” “No, all that for thinking of it, for knowing how much it’ll mean, how much it’ll push the ugly of what happened away. Then arranging it.” She drew him back, kissed him again. “For that.”

“She looked so fragile, yet under that, so strong.” Bringing Eve’s hands to his lips, he kissed them. “I’ve seen you look the same.” “Not tonight.”

When Roarke did it for her, she smiled. “I could go for some hot, sweaty sex with you, but I don’t think I’ve got a round in me.” “Happily, I’m not a teenage boy, and can wait for that gratification.”

Knowing her preference when she only wanted sleep, he handed her a nightshirt. “Thanks. I’ll bang you like a marching band on the island.” “A marching band?” “They got drums, right? Lots of drums. Bang, boom, bang. And Jesus, McNab was right. The brain can sizzle.”

“How did it get to be morning again?” “There you have that pesky rotation of the Earth. You didn’t sleep long, but you slept well.” “I slept like a … I was going to say rock because people say that, but it’s stupid. Rocks don’t sleep.”

Roarke stacked the plates under the domes, then pointed at the cat. “Knock these off again, and there’ll be no treats for you later. Mark my words.” “He’s a cat, Roarke,” Eve called out. “Do you figure cats understand the concept of later?” “This one best learn to.”

He cupped her chin, tapped his thumb in its shallow dent before he kissed her. “Tag me, will you, before you make that tackle. I’d like to be there if I can manage it. And see you take care of my cop.”

When Roarke glanced back, the cat stopped his oh-so-casual walk toward the table. He turned, sat, shot up a leg, and began to wash diligently. “Mind your step, mate, or we’ll think about replacing you with a nice, obedient hound.” At the word hound, Galahad sent one searing look over his shoulder. “Consider that,” Roarke advised.

“I don’t know how anyone gets over burying their child.” “They don’t. They just get through it.”

“Opium cakes,” Roarke confirmed. “I’ve seen these. And no,” he said at the unspoken question. “Absolutely never.” “I read up more on it,” Peabody said. “You make the morphine from the cakes, boil them with lime, and you get the morphine on the surface, then you heat it up again—I think with ammonia, and he’s got that right under the counter. And the molds. See the molds? That brown pasty stuff in them’s morphine, and you make heroin from that.”

“Poppies,” Roarke said. “Poppies will put them to sleep.” “What?” “It’s from The Wizard of Oz,” Peabody said helpfully. “The Wicked Witch.” “He’s no witch, but right now he has the edge on wicked. Come down, will you? I think this comp is straight science. I need to find the personal.”

She went down, found McNab at the comp in the study area. “Kid’s got it made, and he kills girls? I’d’ve been doing something much else with girls at that age if I had free run down here.” “Bet you were always pretty.” He grinned, tried for a modest shrug as he worked. “Well, pretty enough to get Peabody.”

“We’re going to need bigger evidence boxes,” Peabody told her. “He’s got morphine, fentanyl, Rohypnol, ketamine, and lots more. And it looks like he’s been making his own street drugs. Zeus, Whore, Erotica. He’s labeled them all. Has a good supply of house-made Stay Up.

“Look at you, master of the universe, sitting on the floor of a cop shop, eating pizza, and wearing a borrowed shirt.” “And all for love.” She reached out for his hand. “When this is wrapped, it’s you and me. Sun, sand, sea, and sex.” “I want the sex in or on all of the first three, and elsewhere.”

“Guess what, you pissant, you’re not in charge here. I am. I’m in charge. I have the authority.” She got to her feet, leaned in close. “I’m in charge. You’re free to shut up if you want while I tell you what you are. Loser. I don’t add the dick because I don’t have to look at it to know it’s very, very tiny. Here’s a tip. Jerking off constantly won’t make it bigger.”

“You took that from me. I’ll kill you for it one day.” “If I had a dollar for every time some schmuck says that to me, I’d have a bunch of million dollars. You, Peabody?” “Maybe about half a million. You’ve been on the job longer, and it adds up.” “Long enough to know Francis here has confessed, on record, to murder, attempted murder, attempted rape, and so on.”

“That was difficult,” Mira began. “It’s difficult to see such an active psychopath inside a young body. A challenge to find the key to unlock the psychopath for all to see. “You and Peabody did an exceptional job in there.” “Difficult to see, yeah. But the job was easier than I expected. He’s educated, he’s got intellect, but his arrogance, his narcissism blocks any actual smarts.

She walked to her office. Roarke stood from her desk, took the two steps toward her, and folded her into his arms. “Oh. Well. I shouldn’t do this now. I still have to write it up and update Whitney.” “He was in Observation long enough to know you did the job. And you need this now.”

After the report, after the stops, Roarke piloted the shuttle himself. Their just-you-and-me time began then and there. While he flew, she slept. Still in her in-charge outfit, including, he noted, her thick-soled boots, with her weapon still strapped on. No dreams, he thought. Not now. And not, he hoped, for the few days they’d have alone together.

She tugged his bag free, dropped it, then boosted herself up, wrapped her legs around his waist. “’Links on emergency contact only.” “Already done.” “I haven’t, but I will.”

Completely content, she ran a hand through his hair. “I say the fourth s starts now if you’re not too tired.” “I think I can manage that.” When he kissed her, she knew he could, and would. So she fell into the kiss, into him, as they held on to each other in the wide-open space, with the breeze blowing through the door of the house on an island where there was no one but the two of them.