Origin in Death (In Death 21)

"Jesus Christ!"

The woman used her momentum to spin a full circle and swung at the cabbie. Forewarned, the cabbie nimbly leaped out of range.

"Police! Police! I'm being mugged right on the street in broad day­light. Where are the damn police!"

"You're going to be unconscious on the street in broad daylight," Eve warned, and ducked the next swing as she dug out her badge. "I am the damn police in this godforsaken city, and what the hell are you doing in my world?"

"That's a fake! You think I don't know a fake badge just because I'm from Minnesota?"

When she hefted her purse for another swing, Eve drew her weapon. "You want to bet this is fake, you Minnesota moron?"

The woman, a good one-seventy, stared. Then her eyes rolled back. On the way down, she toppled over on the cabbie, who might have weighed in at one-twenty, fully dressed.

Beside her, as Eve glared down at the tangle of limbs at her feet, the sedan's window opened.

"My mom! She killed my mom!"

She glanced in, saw the sedan was packed with kids. She didn't care to count the number. They were all screaming or crying at a decibel that put the panic button in the shade.

"Oh, bloody, buggering hell." It was one of Roarke's favorites, and seemed most appropriate. "I didn't kill anybody. She fainted. I'm the police. Look." She held her badge to the window.

Inside the weeping and wailing continued unabated. On the ground, the cabbie

, obviously dazed, struggled to pull herself from un­der her opponent.

"I barely tapped her." New York was so thick in her voice an air-jack wouldn't have dented it. Eve felt immediate kinship. "And you saw, you saw, she started beating on my ride. And she shoved me first. You saw."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

"She clocked you good. You're coming up a bruise there. Damn tourists. Hey, you kids, button it. Your old lady's fine. Slam the lie down, now!"

The screams subsided to wet whimpers.

"Nice job," Eve commented.

"Got two of my own." The cabbie rubbed her bruised ass, shrugged "You just gotta know how to handle them."

They stood a moment, studying the now moaning woman, as the hysteria of horns and voices raged around them. Two uniforms hot­footed it through people, through vehicles. Eve held up her badge.

"Fender bump. Cab against rental. No visible vehicular damage."

"What's with her?" one of the uniforms asked, nodding toward the woman who attempted to sit up.

"Got herself worked up, took a swing at me, passed out."

"You want we should take her in for assaulting an officer?"

"Hell, no. Just haul her up, load her in, and get her the hell out of here. She makes any noises about the bump, or pressing charges, then you tell her she pushes it, she's going to spend Thanksgiving in a cage. Assault with a damn purse."

She crouched down, shoved her badge in the woman's face again. "You hear any of that? You take any of that in? Do us all a favor. Get in that heap you rented and keep driving." Eve rose. "Welcome to gee-forsaken New York."

She glanced at the cabbie. "You sustain any injuries in the fall?"

"Shit, ain't the first time my ass hit the street. She lets it go, I let it g: I got better things to do."

"Good. Officers, it's your party now."

She got back in her car, checked her face in the mirror as she waiter out the next red. The bruise was blooming from the tip of her nose right up her cheekbone to the corner of her eye.