“You made the stretch.”
“I had more. If you’re looking for fuel against another cop on this from me, you’re not going to get it.”
“That’s up to his superiors, not IAB. Regarding the media that’s going to . . . has already started to explode on the incident last night, you spin that right—and you’ve got excellent media connections—you can circle it into a positive. Heroic cop risks life to protect the city from baby killers.”
“Oh fuck that.”
“Don’t think that’s not just how Tibble will have it spun. Not just your ass in the sling if you don’t get some shine on this. Turn it around, get that sexy, fierce-eyed face on camera. Shake this off so you can get back to work.”
“I am back to work.” But she considered. “The spin lower the heat on the rest of the team, on the investigation?”
“Couldn’t hurt. It couldn’t hurt if you tell the rest of your team to cut me some serious slack. I was a good murder cop.”
“Yeah, too bad you didn’t stick with that.”
“Your opinion. I can help, and that’s why I’m here. Not to roust you, and not because I’ve still got a torch going. Maybe just a little smoulder now and then,” he added with an easy smile.
“Cut it out.”
The door between the offices opened. Though Roarke leaned against the jamb, he looked about as lazy as a wolf eyeballing quarry. “Webster,” he said in the coolest of tones.
Eve had a flash of the two of them beating the crap out of each other right where she now stood. She felt the tickle that might have been panic in the back of her throat as she stepped between them.
“Lieutenant Webster is here—at the directive of Chief Tibble—as a representative of IAB and for the purposes of—”
“Christ, Dallas, I can talk for myself.” And he held his hands up, palms out. “Never touched her, don’t intend to.”
“Good. She’s on a difficult investigation, as I’m sure you’re aware. She hardly needs either of us complicating things.”
“I’m not here to complicate things for her, or you.”
“Standing right here,” Eve said sharply. “You can stop talking around me.”
“Just clearing the air, Lieutenant.” Roarke nodded to her, to Webster. “I’ll let you get back to work.”
“A minute,” she muttered and stalked into the office behind Roarke, shut the door with a decisive click. “Listen—”
He cut her off, pressing his lips to hers, then eased back. “I like to wind him up—and you as well. It’s small of me, but there you are. I know perfectly well that he won’t move on you, and if he lost his mind and did, you’d bloody him. Well, unless I got there first, which I sincerely hope would be the case. Actually, as I’ve told you before, I like him.”
“You like him.”
“Yes. He has superb taste in women, and a rather fine left jab.”
“Great. Good.” She shook her head. You figured you knew what made men tick, she thought. But you never did. “I’m going back to work.”
21
WITH A FROWN ON HER FACE, EVE SURVEYED Roarke’s computer lab. Several of the units were up and running, several of the screens had words, codes, strange symbols that might as well have been hieroglyphics whizzing over them. Computerized voices intoned incomprehensible statements, questions, comments.
And the rumpled Feeney, the neon McNab, scooted around on wheeled chairs, somehow miraculously avoiding collision with work stations and each other, like a couple of kids in a strange, strange game.
Stepping into the room was, for her, like stepping into an alternate universe.
“Yo.” Feeney gave her a finger point, then tapped icons on a screen that slid up out of the counter. “Got something going.”
“Okay. I assume it’s not Maximum Force 2200.”
“Hey.” McNab looked over. “You cruise MF?”