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“I will.” Feeling her nerves, he rubbed his hand along the side of her thigh. “And yes, I’ll meet with my own media and public relations people. Those are the last things you need to worry about.”
“Right.” She rose, crossed over to retrieve her weapon harness, strap it on over a plum-colored turtleneck. “I’m going to review a few things here,” she began, sticking her badge in the pocket of charcoal-gray trousers, hooking her restraints to the back of her belt. “Then I’m heading out. We’re early enough, so Peabody and I should be able to catch Decker before she leaves for work.”
She picked up a jacket, frowned at it. “This isn’t the one I got out of the closet.”
“It’s not, no, but it’s the right jacket.”
Since it was the same gray as the pants and had a pencil-thin stripe that matched the sweater, she had to assume he was right. Anyway, it was there, so she shrugged into it.
Then narrowed her eyes. “Do I look like an accountant?”
“Not in a million years. No offense whatsoever to accountants.” He rose, went to her. “You look like a well-dressed cop.”
“That’s a—what do they call that thing?—oxymoron. Except for Baxter. Shit, I’ve got to talk to him, too, and Reineke and Jenkinson.” She rubbed the slight ache between her eyebrows when Roarke said nothing. “I’ve got to talk to them all. They’ll have bits and pieces by now, that’s how it works. I’ve got to br
ief them all.”
“You run a well-oiled division with good cops.”
“They are good cops. Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Take care of my particular, and well-dressed, cop.” He kissed her lightly.
As she drew away, her communicator sounded. And dread rolled through her.
She pulled it out. “Dallas.”
“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 524 Avenue B, unit 311. Possible homicide. Victim visually ID’d by responding officers as Ledo—first name unknown at this time. Responding officers report written message left for Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Possible connection to ongoing investigation.”
“Yeah, I got that. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”
“Confirmed. Dispatch out.”
“Ledo.” Eve shoved down the guilt. “For Christ’s sake.”
“I’m going with you so you can tell me who he is on the way.”
“There’s no need for you to—”
“I’d like to go with you.” Roarke took her shoulders, firmly. “Then I’ll get out of your way. If you don’t want to think about your husband’s natural concern, consider me that fresh eye and viewpoint.”
“Okay, fine, you drive. I can see what Ledo was up to since the last time I dealt with him.”
She moved fast, grabbing her coat off the newel post, swinging it on, hesitating only a moment when Roarke held out a scarf she recognized as one Peabody had made her for Christmas.
“It’s cold,” he said.
“Fine, fine.” She wrapped it on as she headed for the door, grateful Peabody had gone with muted colors.
As she strode toward the waiting car, engine and heat running, he pulled a ski cap over her head.
“It’s black. Live with it.”
Rather than argue—or point out he wasn’t wearing a stupid hat—she jumped in the passenger seat, pulled out her PPC to do a quick run on Ledo.
“First name Wendall—who knew? Age thirty-four. You’d peg him as a decade older, but that’s chemical abuse among every other abuse you can think of. He did a quick stint for possession since I saw him last—six-month sentence, four served, with mandatory rehab—got that checked off, and I can promise you it didn’t take. Repped by court-ordered attorney. No connection to Bastwick I can find here, and there’s not going to be. Unless we’re counting me.”
“Tell me about him,” Roarke said as he bulleted through the gates.
