“Lieutenant Dallas.” The woman who’d passed her eyes, the shape of her mouth, onto her son gripped Eve’s hand. “Thank you for coming. Do you . . . this isn’t the time to ask if . . .”
“Your son has all my attention, and the determination of the NYPSD to bring his killer to justice.”
“His life was just beginning,” Bart’s father said.
“I’ve gotten to know him over the past couple of days. It seems to me he lived that life very well.”
“Thank you for that. Thank you, Lieutenant.”
She eased away, moving through the crowd, scanning faces, listening to bits of conversation. And searching for the partners.
She saw the Sing family, the two beautiful kids in dark suits she thought made them look eerily like mini-adults. Susan Sing had an arm around CeeCee’s shoulders so the five of them formed their own intimate little unit. Connected, she thought, by Bart’s life and by his death.
Eve started toward them when Cill spotted her. The outrage on her face held as much passion as a scream. Anticipating her, Eve crossed over, away from the main packs of people, forcing Cill to change direction to come after her.
“You’re not welcome here. Do you think you can come here now, now, when we’re remembering Bart? Do you think you can just grab some pizza bites and a fizzy and spy on us now?”
“You don’t want to cause a scene here, Cill. You don’t want to do this here.”
“This is our place. This was Bart’s place, and you—”
“Cill.” Roarke laid a hand on her shoulder. “Your anger’s misplaced.”
“Don’t tell me about my anger.” She shrugged his hand away. “Bart’s dead. He’s dead, and she’s trying to make it seem like we killed him. What kind of person does that? For all I know she’s decided this is an opportunity, and she’s passing our data onto you.”
“Be careful,” Eve said softly. “Be very careful.”
Cill jutted up her chin, and her eyes sparked challenge. “What are you going to do? Arrest me?”
“Come, walk outside with me,” Roarke told her. “Just you and I, and you can say whatever you need to say. But away from here. You’ll upset Bart’s parents if this keeps up.”
“Fine. I’ve got plenty to say.”
As Roarke took her out, Eve gave them a moment. It was just enough time for Benny to elbow his way through the crowd.
“What’s going on? What did you say to her?”
“Very little. She needs to blow off some steam. It’ll be better blown outside where it doesn’t upset anyone else.”
“God.” He scrubbed his hands over his face, then watched, as Eve did, as Cill paced and pointed, threw up her hands. And Roarke stood, listening. “She’s better off mad,” Benny said at length. “I’d rather see her pissed off at you, at everything, than so damn sad.”
“Does she know you’re in love with her?”
“We’re friends.” His shoulders stiffened.
“It would be hard working with someone every day, as closely as you work together, and having those feelings. It’s a lot to hold in.”
“We’re friends,” he repeated. “And that’s my personal business.”
“Lieutenant Dallas.” Tight-lipped, Var strode up. “This isn’t right. You can’t come here now and interrogate us, anyone. This is for Bart. His parents deserve . . . What’s Cill doing out there with Roarke?”
“Blowing off some,” Benny said. “No, come on.” He took Var’s arm as Var turned toward the door. “Let her work it out. Let’s not do this today, okay? Let’s just not do this today.”
“You’re right. Okay, you’re right.” Var closed his eyes, dragged both hands through his skullcap of hair. “Look, can’t you leave us alone today?” he asked Eve. “Just leave us alone while we get through this. It’s not like we’re going anywhere.”
“I’m not here to hassle you. I came to pay my respects to Bart’s parents as I was the one who had to tell them he was dead.”
“Oh hell.” Benny let out a long breath. “Sorry. I guess . . . sorry.”