“Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarke—just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.”
It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. “It makes me sick,” she repeated. “All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don’t know why, I just don’t know why it churns my stomach. I’ve seen worse. God, we’ve both seen worse.”
“But rarely more futile.” He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. “No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn’t it make you sick? It does me as well.”
“I contacted the next of kin,” she began. “Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That’s why I’m late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I’d feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked me why. Why had these men killed their daughter, their husband, their mother?”
“And what did you tell them?”
“Sometimes there’s no why, or not one we can understand.” She squeezed her eyes tight. “I want to be pissed.”
“You are, under it. And under that, you know you did good work. And you’re alive, darling Eve.” He drew her in to kiss her brow. “Which, to take this to their level, makes them losers.”
“I guess it does. I guess that’s going to have to be enough.”
She took his face in her hands, smiled a little. “And there’s the added bonus that they hate us both. Really hate us. That adds a boost.”
“I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be hated by, or anyone I’d rather be hated with.”
Now the smile moved into her eyes. “Me either. If I keep that front and center, I could be in the mood to party. I guess we should go down and do whatever we’re supposed to do before everybody gets here.”
“Change first. You’ll feel more in the party mode without your boots and weapon.”
By the time she’d changed trousers for cotton pants, boots for skids, and made it downstairs, she heard voices in the foyer. She spotted her partner, Peabody, her short, dark ponytail bouncing, summery dress swirling. Peabody’s cohab, e-detective and premier geek McNab, stood beside her in a skin tank crisscrossed with more colors than an atomic rainbow paired with baggy, hot pink knee shorts and gel flips.
He turned, the forest of silver rings on his left earlobe shimmering, and shot Eve a wide grin. “Hey, Dallas. We brought you something.”
“My granny’s homemade wine.” Peabody held up the bottle. “I know you’ve got a wine cellar the size of California, but we thought you’d get a charge. It’s good stuff.”
“Let’s go out and open it up. I’m ready for some good stuff.”
Peabody kept eye contact, quirked her brows. “All okay?”
“The PA’s probably still doing his happy dance. Case closed,” she said, and left out the rest. No point in adding the details now that would leave her partner as troubled as she’d been.
“We’ll have the first drink with a toast to the NYPSD’s Homicide—and Electronic Detectives divisions,” Roarke said with a wink for McNab.
The wide stone terrace held tables already loaded with food and shaded by umbrellas, and the gardens exploded with color and scent. The monster grill Roarke had conquered—mostly—looked formidable, and the wine was indeed good stuff.
Within thirty minutes, the scent of grilling meat mixed with the perfume of summer flowers. The terrace, the chairs around the tables, the gardens filled with people. It still amazed her she’d somehow collected so many.
Her cops—everyone who’d worked the Dudley-Moriarity case—along with Cher Reo, the ADA, newlyweds Dr. Louise DiMatto and retired licensed companion Charles Monroe stood, sat, lounged, or stuffed their faces.
Morris, the ME who’d inspired the impulse for her to arrange this shindig to help with his lingering grief over his murdered love, shared a brew with Father Lopez, who’d become his friend and counselor.
Sort of weird having a priest at a party—even one she liked and respected—but at least he wasn’t wearing the getup.
Nadine Furst, bestselling author and ace reporter, chatted happily with Dr. Mira, department shrink, and Mira’s adorable husband, Dennis.
It was good, she decided, to blow off steam this way, to gather together to do it, even if gathering together wasn’t as natural for her as for some. It was good to watch Feeney kibitz Roarke’s grill technique, and watch Trueheart show off his pretty, shy-eyed girlfriend.
Hell, she might just have another glass of Granny Peabody’s wine and—
The thought winged away when she heard the bright laugh.
Mavis Freestone rushed out on silver sandals that laced past the hem of her flippy, thigh-baring lavender skirt. Her hair, perched in a crowning tail, matched the skirt. In her arms she carried baby Bella. Leonardo, beaming at his girls, followed.
“Dallas!”