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“Could be. Yeah, it really could be. And if that’s how it goes, the cop has to be in her squad.”
“Back to IAB.”
“I’m thinking yes.”
“Well, have some breakfast first.”
“I’ll grab something. I should get in and . . . Crap. Damn it. My ride.”
“Have some breakfast,” Roarke repeated, “then we’ll deal with your transportation.”
Scowling, she jammed her hands in her pockets. “I lost my appetite thinking about those bastards in Requisitions.”
Roarke simply walked over and programmed her a ham-and-egg pocket. “Here, quick and easy.”
“I guess.” She took a sulky bite where she stood. “I’d get Peabody to offer personal sexual favors again, but they’re not going to buy that a second time. They’ll make me beg, then they’ll still give me the crappiest piece of junk in the junk pile. I could bribe Baxter to do it,” she considered.
“The personal sexual favors?”
“No, but . . . maybe. Requisition a new vehicle. Like he needs one. They like him. Except they already know it’s my ride.” Her tone turned bitter as cop coffee. “They have their spies everywhere.”
“This is a very thorny problem, Lieutenant. I think I can help you with it.”
“They’d give me the pick of the fleet if you offered them personal sexual favors. But I’m not going the
re. There have to be lines, there have to be limits. Besides, I’m a goddamn lieutenant.” She stuffed her mouth with ham and eggs and thin, warm bread. “I shouldn’t have to beg,” she muttered around the food. “I’m a boss.”
“You’re absolutely right. The bastards.” He slung an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go downstairs. I think I may have a way around all this.”
“It’s not like I did anything. It’s wrecked, sure, but it was wrecked in the line. Fuckers.”
“I agree. Fuckers.”
The amusement in his tone was lost on her as she wallowed and stewed. “I hate playing it this way. It just gripes me. But I can’t get bogged down in this during an investigation. So, maybe you could come up with a couple of cases of prime brew, or VIP seats for the ball game. A really shiny bribe.”
“I could, no doubt. But let’s try this instead.”
He opened the front door.
In the drive sat a vehicle of dull and somber gray. Its lines were too practical, too ordinary for ugly—so the best it could claim was drab. It did boast some shiny bits of chrome that glinted hopefully in the morning sun.
“Peabody already took care of it?”
“No.”
She’d started to walk to it, struggling against the personal disappointment that it was much more humble in appearance than her old one—a lot more humble, so the shiny bits came off as pitiful as cheap lip dye on a homely woman. Then she stopped, frowned.
“Don’t tell me it’s yours. You don’t have anything this ordinary in your toy box.”
“It’s not mine. It’s yours.”
“You said Peabody hadn’t . . .” Now who was a half step behind? “You can’t buy my official vehicle.”
“There are no rules or regulations restricting you from driving your own vehicle on your official duties. I checked.”
“Yeah. I mean no. I mean you can’t just give me a ride.”
“Of course I can, and fully intended to. It was going to be your anniversary gift. And now I’ll have to come up with something else there.”
