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"I do know. Just a little too late." She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke's efficient assistant without stopping.
Efficiency prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got there.
"Lieutenant, I didn't expect you personally."
"I'm heading in. I'm pressed to the wall here." She looked in his eyes, wished she could say…wanted to. "Things are coming together, and the clock's running."
"Then you'll want your bait." He looked into her eyes. "I assume several million in counterfeit bonds is bait—with you as hook."
"We're closing in. With any luck, this should finish it. I—Peabody, take a walk," she said without looking back.
"Sir?"
"Step out, Peabody."
"Stepping out, Lieutenant."
"Look…" Eve began. "I'm really hitting the wire on this, so I can't get into stuff. I'm sorry about before."
"You're sorry I'm irritated."
"Okay, fine. I'm sorry you're irritated, but I have to ask for a favor."
"Personal or official?"
Oh, he was going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. "Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson—everything—And I need it really fast. I can't spare Feeney, and even if I could, you'll be quicker and you won't leave fingerprints."
"Where do you want me to send the data?"
"I need you to call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don't want her to know I'm looking."
"She won't." He turned and lifted a wide steel case. "Your bonds, Lieutenant."
She tried a smile. "I won't ask you how you managed this so fast."
He didn't smile back. "Best not."
She nodded, hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn't remember another time when they'd been together for five minutes and he hadn't touched her in some way. She'd gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a backhanded slap.
"Thanks. I'll—The hell with it." She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for her was a great gulp of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. "See you later," she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.
Now he smiled, just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she'd asked of him.
• • •
"You okay, Dallas?"
"Yeah, shit. I'm dancing." She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.
"I can call in a female to, ah, finish this."
"Hell, I don't want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it."
"All right, okay." He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. "The tracker's wireless. It's going to go right over your heart. We figure they'll scan you, but we're going to coat it with this stuff—it's like skin. They're using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it'll look like a blemish or something."
"So they'll
think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine."
