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“One moment, Lieutenant.” Tibble stepped forward, gave the entire room the hard eye until everyone settled. “I have personally reviewed recordings taken from Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Lieutenant Lowenbaum, and others during the confrontation and arrest of Willow Mackie. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and a civilian consultant all received direct strikes deployed by Willow Mackie, and were spared serious injury only due to their body armor.”
He allowed just a hint of temper to show as he turned the hard eye on the original questioner.
“Age doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot, in my opinion, when you’re armed with laser rifles, flash grenades, and you know how to use them. More, if you use them to strike at civilians, at police officers, and rack up kills like trophies. Lieutenant Dallas and her team risked their lives today, as they do every day, to save yours, to save your spouses, your sons and daughters, your friends and neighbors. If anyone wishes to question the necessary actions of the courageous men and women who risked all to stop that unconscionable number at twenty-five, talk to me.
“Lieutenant Dallas, you’re dismissed, with gratitude.”
“Sir.”
She got out, got the hell out, pitifully grateful Roarke was right there waiting for her.
In the car, she put her head back, closed her eyes. “There’ll be others who’ll pull that.”
“If you mean using her age to pump up a story, or the fact that she got a few bumps during the arrest, yes, I expect so. Just as I know they’ll be drowned out. Put it away, darling.”
“Tibble was pissed. You don’t see that every day.”
“The fact he was, and let it show, has impact. You knew all twenty-five names.”
“Some things stick with you.”
He let her rest, hoped she slept, but she shifted, sat up as he drove through the gates.
“You’re going to want me to eat, but I feel a little off. I don’t know if I can deal with food.”
“Maybe a little soup. It’ll help you sleep.”
Maybe, she thought, but . . . “Don’t tranq it.”
“I won’t.”
She leaned on him as they walked to the front door, leaned as exhaustion crept back inch by inch. Because it’s done, she told herself. Because it’s over.
Summerset and Galahad stood in the foyer, as they might after any workday. But it wasn’t any day. She could have pulled out an insult, to make it more ordinary, but Summerset had wrestled with his own trauma.
She didn’t have it in her.
Apparently, neither did he.
He scanned her face, the bruises, but didn’t smirk or comment.
“Will you let me tend to your injuries, Lieutenant?”
“I just want to sleep.”
He nodded, looked at Roarke. “Are you hurt?”
“No. You look better.”
“I’m fine. We’ve had quiet times, the cat and I. Now you’ll have your own. There’s chicken soup, with noodles. I thought soothing would be best after this day.”
“Thanks for that.” Roarke wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist, turned her toward the stairs.
“Lieutenant?”
She glanced back, so tired now she nearly floated. “Evil doesn’t have an age.”
“No. No, it really doesn’t.”
