She'd left her office door open. After all, Roarke thought sourly, she'd summoned him, hadn't she? She sat scowling at her computer screen as if the information it offered annoyed her. There was a mug of coffee at her elbow, likely gone cold by now. Her hair was disordered and spiky, no doubt disturbed by her restless hands. She still wore her weapon harness.
Galahad had made himself at home on a pile of paperwork on the desk. He twitched his tail in greeting, and his bicolored eyes gleamed with unmistakable glee. Roarke could almost hear the feline thoughts.
Come on in, get started. I've been waiting for the show.
"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?"
Her head came up, turned. He looked cool, she noted, casually elegant in his dark business suit with the collar of his shirt loosened. But the body language—the cock of his head, the thumbs hooked in his pockets, the way his weight was balanced on the balls of his feet—warned her here was an Irish brawler spoiling for a fight.
Fine, she decided. She was ready for one.
"Yeah, I wanted to see you. You want to shut the door?"
"By all means." He closed it behind him before crossing the room. And waited. He preferred for his opponent to draw first blood.
It made the striking back more satisfying.
"I need names." Her voice was clipped and brisk. She wanted them both to know she was speaking as a cop. "Names of the men you killed. Names of any- and everyone you can remember you contacted to find those men."
"You'll have them."
"And I'll need a statement from you, detailing where you were and who you were with during the times of the Brennen and Conroy homicides."
His eyes went hot, for an instant only, then frosted to brilliant blue ice. "Am I a suspect? Lieutenant?"
"No, and I want to keep it that way. Eliminating you from the top simplifies things."
"By all means let's keep things simple."
"Don't take that line with me." She knew what he was doing, she thought with rising fury. Oh, she had his number, all right, with his cold and utterly reasonable tone. Damned if he'd shake her. "The more I can go by the book on this, the better it is for everyone involved. I'd like to fit Summerset with a security bracelet. He'd never agree if I asked, so I'd like you to."
"I won't ask him to submit to the indignity of that."
"Look." She got to her feet, slowly. "A little indignity might keep him out of a cage."
"For some, dignity is a priority."
&nbs
p; "Fuck dignity. I've got enough problems without worrying about that. What I need is facts, evidence, an edge. If you keep lying to me—"
"I never lied to you."
"You withheld vital information. It's the same thing."
"No, it's not." Oh, he had her number, he thought, with her stubborn, unbending rules. Damned if she'd shake him. "I withheld information in the hope I could keep you out of a difficult position."
"Don't do me any favors," she snapped as control teetered.
"I won't." He moved to a dome-topped cabinet, selected a bottle of whiskey, and poured three fingers into a heavy crystal glass. He considered throwing it.
She heard the ice pick fury in his tone, recognized the frigid rage. She would have preferred heat, something hot and bubbling to match her own mood.
"Great, terrific. You go ahead and be pissed off. I've got two dead guys, and I'm waiting for the third. I've got essential information, information vital to the case, that I can't use officially unless I want to come visit you in a federal facility for the next hundred years."
He sipped, and showed his teeth in a smile. "Don't do me any favors."
"You can just yank that stick out of your ass, pal, because you're in trouble here." She found she wanted to hit something—smash anything—and settled for shoving her chair aside. "You and that bony droid you're so goddamn fond of. If I'm going to keep both your butts out of the sling, you better get yourself a quick attitude adjustment."