Leverage in Death (In Death, #47)

by J.D. Robb

“That’s unbelievably cruel.” “Nothing cruel’s unbelievable.”

“What do they get out of that?” Eve wondered as they stepped into the vacated elevator. “How good could your own thumb taste?” “It’s not the taste, it’s the sucking action. Oral satisfaction and comfort.” “So, basically, they’re giving themselves a blow job?” For a couple of seconds, Peabody’s mouth worked silently. “I … I can’t possibly answer that without feeling really dirty and weirded.”

“Squirrels are sort of cute and fuzzy. And they can have personality.” After zipping into her slot, Eve shifted in her seat. “Look in a squirrel’s eyes next time you see one scampering along like a fuzzy rat. Right in the eyes. They’re lunatics.”

“The heart wants what it wants, sees what it needs to see.” “The heart’s just a pulsing muscle without the head.” She angled to study him. “You look good.” Major understatement, she thought. “And that’s a thing. I might’ve banged you if you’d been a useless user, but I’d have moved on.”

“You do know it’s leopards that don’t change their spots, not polka dots?” “A leopard’s born, lives, and dies a leopard, so that’s that.” “That’s rather the point of the adage.” “Why need an adage on something that’s just that? It’s a waste of words. If people didn’t have stupid sayings about the obvious, they wouldn’t waste so many words and talk so damn much.”

“I want a biscuit,” he said, pushing up to go into the kitchen. “I don’t have any biscuits in there. What about investments?” “He’s with Buckley and Schultz,” Roarke said from the kitchen. “It appears Buckley himself handled his portfolio until about eight years ago, when he passed it down the chain. Banks doesn’t have enough personal wealth for Buckley to handle personally.” He came back in with a plate holding two big cookies chunky with chips. “Those aren’t biscuits. Those are cookies.” “I don’t suppose you want one then.” “Give me a damn biscuit.”

When she woke in the morning, he sat drinking coffee, watching the financials with the cat stretched out beside him. She sat up. “It wasn’t a Spider-Man suit.” He glanced over. “Wasn’t it?” “It was black—but he has a black one, too, I guess. It’s confusing. But it had an R—for Roarke—instead of the spider deal. And you’re swinging over the damn city and climbing up buildings, and there was a big gust of wind. It scared the shit out of me. Don’t do that again.” “I’ll resist. Though you do have the most fascinating dreams.”

She got out the candy bar she’d brought from home, stood on her desk to attach it to the inside of a ceiling tile. An easy find, oh yeah, but … She fastened a button alarm, carefully, so carefully, to the joint of the tile. Lift that sucker a fraction, and the shrieking whistle should scare the unholy crap out of the thief even as its blue dye exploded all over the fucker’s face. Satisfied, looking forward to retribution, she jumped down, unlocked her door.

“You’re banking rent from a sociopathic killer.” “Ah well,” Roarke responded. “It happens.”