Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“I’m not.” But of course she was, a knee-jerk defense mechanism. Before she could say anything else, he was plowing on.

“I bury my own instincts every bloody day to stay out of your way as much as I do. Not to let myself think, every minute of every bloody day you’re out there if tonight’s the night you don’t come back.”

“You can’t think that way. You married a cop, you took the package.”

“I did, and I do.”

It wasn’t ice in his eyes, she noted. It was fire, strong and blue. And that was somehow worse. “Then—”

“Have I asked you to change what you are, what you do? Have I complained when you’re called away in the middle of the night, or when you come home smelling of death?”

“No. You’re better at this than I am. Media flash.”

“Bollocks. We’ve both managed to fumble our way through nearly two years of each other, and quite well. But when you give your word to me, I expect you to keep it.”

The headache had reached behind her eyes now, stabbing fingers gleefully poking. “I guess that cargo ship hasn’t quite finished dumping shit on me today. And you’re right. I broke my word. It wasn’t intentional. It was of the moment. And it was wrong. I let it get to me. The kid, the body in the alley, dead cops, children killed in their beds. I let it ball up in my throat, and I know better.”

She shoved the heels of her hands into her temples in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. “It was worth the chance, I believe it was worth the chance, but it turned out to be the wrong call. You’re not the first one to scrape me over about it tonight. Whitney’s already taken off a few layers of skin.”

Saying nothing, he moved back behind his console, pressed a button. He took a small bottle out of a drawer, tapped two little blue pills into his hand. Then he fetched a small bottle of water out of the friggie behind a panel.

“Take the blockers. Don’t argue,” he snapped when she opened her mouth. “I can see the fucking headache pounding as I’m standing here.”

“It’s past headache. It feels like my brains are being squeezed out my ears.” She took the blockers, dropped back into the chair, and dropped her head in her hands. “I fucked up. Goddamn clusterfuck. Cops and civilians in the hospital, private and city property damage up the wazoo. Three murder suspects still at large. Because I made the wrong call.”

“I guess that’s why they call you lieutenant instead of God. Sit back now, relax a minute.”

“Don’t baby me. I don’t deserve it. I don’t want it. They were too close. Had to figure they’d stick that close because they were trying to monitor any communications. The vehicle has screens, but they’ve got choice toys, so I had to figure they were within visual for a reason. If they could track me or monitor me, they needed to be close. I didn’t want to risk calling it in.”

“That seems reasonable. Logical.”

“Yeah, seems. I call it in, they catch the signal, they poof. So I pulled over, sent Trueheart into the twenty-four/seven so it looked like I had a reason, so it looked casual. To see what they did. They drove by, circled around, and picked me up again. So then I figure I’ll switch it on them. Get behind them, call in support, keep on them until we can box them in, take them down. But Jesus Christ, that van moved. I don’t know how they’ve juiced it up, but I clocked it at one-twenty-six, airborne. Then there were the laser rifles, and God knows. They took out a couple of black-and-whites, a number of civilian vehicles, and a maxibus. And I lost them.”

“All by yourself?”

“It was my call. The wrong call. Best I got was make and model of the van. And the plate. Turns out the plate belongs to a black panel van of that make and model, but not that panel van. Dupe plates, and they were smart enough to dupe them from the same type of vehicle. Guy who owns the legal van—which was legally parked at his place of business—is a licensed home handy. He’s clean, and he was home watching screen with his wife.”

She took a swig of water. “So we got injuries, property destruction, possible—hell, probable—civil suits against the department, and the suspects know I’ve made their ride.”

“And Whitney dressed you down right and proper.”

“Ho boy.”

“I doubt he’d have done differently than you, under the same circumstances.”

“Maybe not. Probably not. Still a wrong call. And the mayor will chew out the chief, the chief will chew out the commander, and down to me. Nobody below me on this particular feeding chain. The media will have a feeding frenzy.”

“So, you got your ass kicked a bit. A little ass kicking from time to time builds character.”

“Hell it does. It results in a sore ass.” She let out a sigh. “I’ve got data on all purchases of that make and model. Popular. I left the color open. Figured it’d be easy to paint. I don’t expect to have bells ring on that angle. If it were me, I’d’ve bought it out of town. Or jacked it off some lot outside New York. There won’t be a record, there won’t be a bill of sale.”

“You’re discouraged.” And he hated to see it. “You shouldn’t be.”

“No, just feeling a little beat up tonight. Sorry for my sorry self.”

“So get some sleep. Start fresh in the morning.”

“You’re not.”