New York to Dallas (In Death 33)

“The security officer smiled and said, ‘Good afternoon, ma’am,’ to me before I gave him ID.”

“It’s a sick world, Eve.” He resisted taking her hand for another squeeze. “A sick, sad world.”

“Yeah, it is. So why are these cops smiling? It’s just wrong.”

He couldn’t help it. He gave her a quick one-armed hug, brushed his lips over her hair. “Cut it out, yes, I know,” he said with a laugh. “But it seemed appropriate enough in a world of smiling cops. And here’s one who isn’t.”

Eve made Bree Jones the minute the detective stepped through the doors. For an instant then overlaid now and she had a perfect image of the young face, bruised, swollen, twisted with rage and fear.

Then it vanished, and she saw a pretty woman, blond hair short, spiky, with soft features overset by a sharp, firm chin. Blue eyes dominated a face pale and shadowed.

She couldn’t cover the fatigue, Eve thought, but she cloaked the fear. It barely showed around the edges.

She walked briskly to Eve, a small, compact woman in faded jeans, a white T-shirt, and brown boots.

“Lieutenant Dallas.”

The voice didn’t quiver. There was an inherent drawl in it that made it sound lazy and overcasual to Eve’s ears. But there was nothing lazy or casual about the handshake.

“Detective Jones. This is Roarke. He’s cleared as consultant.”

“Yes. Thank you for coming. Thank you both for coming so quickly. I asked my loo to let me escort you in. I wanted a moment to thank you personally.”

“There’s no need.”

“So you said before, but there is. And was. I’ll take you in to Lieutenant Ricchio.”

“Are you working the case, Detective?”

“Lieutenant Ricchio is persuaded I’ll be an asset.”

“Did you persuade him?”

Bree glanced at Eve, away again as they passed through the doors. “Yes, Lieutenant, I did. It’s my sister. I wouldn’t have attempted to persuade him unless I believed, completely, I can and will be an asset.”

Eve said nothing. Bree walked like a cop—and excusing the drawl, talked like a cop. But the place? Everything glimmered clean and shiny. Treated glass on generous windows diffused the light, and the air hung steady at a pleasant temperature, belying the wet blanket of heat that smothered the city outside.

“Is this a new facility, Detective?”

“Relatively, Lieutenant. It’s about five years old.”

Five years? Eve thought. Every cop she knew could’ve taken the shine off the place in five days.

They turned into SVU with its wide bullpen, its line of cubes for aides and uniforms. Cops at the desks, some in jackets, some in shirtsleeves, working the ’links, the comps. She wouldn’t say every movement stopped when she walked in, but there was a beat.

In it she got stares close enough to the beady eye to put her at ease.

Ricchio used the traditional boss’s attached office with unshuttered window. He stepped out immediately, held out a hand to Eve.

“Lieutenant Dallas, Mr. Roarke, thank you for responding so quickly. Please, come into my office. How about some coffee?”

She started to refuse. Let’s get down to business. But she remembered this was a world where cops smiled and said please a lot. “Thanks, just black.”

“The same,” Roarke told him.

He programmed the AutoChef, and after passing out the coffee, gesturing to his visitor’s chairs—ones with actual cushions—he sat on the edge of his desk.

He wore a suit and tie, and had a lot of wavy brown hair around a face with a deep tan and lantern jaw. His eyes shifted to Bree, back to Eve.