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“What call would that be?”
“We’re taking on an agent for HSO as a consultant.”
His eyes went cool, very cool before he turned and walked to the AutoChef. Though he performed the everyday task of programming coffee, Eve knew when he walked away his anger was fierce.
“If we’re going to fight about it, we have to fight later. There’s no time now. But I need to tell you … Roarke, I need to tell you I know what you did for me last year when you stepped back from taking retribution against the people in HSO who listened and did nothing while my—while Richard Troy beat and raped me. I know what it cost you
to do that. I know you did it for me. You put me first. You put us first. I don’t forget it. I won’t ever forget it.”
“And yet,” he said softly.
“I can’t put me, or us, ahead of them, all those faces. I can’t, I just won’t, let what happened to me years ago determine how I do my job, for them. It’s already caused us both too much grief and pain. It has to stop. Maybe you’d have made a different call, but—”
“Yes, because I think more of you than you do.”
She couldn’t fight it, couldn’t find the fight, only the heart he filled with those simple words. “No one’s ever thought of me the way you do. I don’t forget that either. And I knew when I made the decision it would upset you. You have every right and reason to be upset. I’m sorry.”
He set aside the coffee he didn’t want. “And yet,” he repeated.
“Her name is Teasdale. Miyu Teasdale. She’s a domestic terrorist specialist, nine years in. She has advanced degrees in chemistry and biology. She’ll be reporting only to Director Hurtz. Tibble knows him, personally, vouches for him. You look at them. Dig into them, use any means you want. I don’t need to know. After you do, if you find they aren’t as clean as Tibble and Whitney say, if you find anything that causes you to doubt I did the right thing, I’ll break it off. I’ll find a way.”
“Oh, I’ll look. Believe me.”
“I didn’t agree easily, and I wouldn’t have agreed except … a hundred and twenty-six dead.”
“A hundred and twenty-seven. Another died in hospital shortly ago.” And because he saw that instant of sorrow on her face, he picked up the coffee, handed it to her.
“I need help. Maybe she’ll just be deadweight, or worse an annoyance or distraction. But maybe she’ll make a difference. Or there’ll be more dead, Roarke, and we won’t have enough boards for their faces.”
“If I look and find something, you’ll end the consultation?”
“Yes. My word on it.”
He nodded, then took time to think, to settle, by getting coffee for himself. “It doesn’t sit well, does it?”
“No. But I’m afraid he’s just getting started, and she’ll have a fresh eye, a supposedly expert eye. And additional resources. Before you say it, I know I could ask you for anything and anyone. Someone equally qualified.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “and that would sit better.”
“Probably with both of us. But this agreement keeps HSO’s involvement minimal. It keeps me in charge. They could have moved in, tried to muscle away the whole shot. And while we were playing tug-of-war …” Her eyes went to the boards again.
He said nothing for a moment, only drank some coffee. Then frowned at the mug. “Why won’t you stock your regular in this thing? It’s not as if you don’t have an unlimited supply of bloody coffee. Word is you married me for it.”
And with that, she understood the crisis had been averted. “I don’t want to spoil my men.”
“You’d rather burn all our stomach linings away.”
“Cops’ guts are tougher than that.” She smiled. “Civilians’ may be more delicate.”
He stepped to her, flicked a finger down the shallow dent in her chin. “Then you’ll perfectly understand why I’ve ordered food in for the briefing.”
“You—”
“Have you eaten since breakfast? I thought not,” he said when she only frowned at him. “I’ll drink your deplorable cop coffee, you’ll eat my food. And we’ll get on.”
“We’ll get on if it’s pizza.”
“I know my cop.”
