Indulgence in Death (In Death 31)

“Eve, please don’t stand there and shovel that bullshit at my feet. These are good shoes.”

She hissed out a breath, but at the end of it he saw the chip on her shoulder tumble off. “Okay, I would trust you, but I’d also have some concerns, worries, and dark thoughts. And you’d be sorry I did. You’d hate that I did.”

“All right.”

She squinted at him. “All right? That’s it?”

“I had a bigger and considerably more vicious fight with you before, in my head. It was passionate, fierce, and very, very loud.”

“Who won?”

He had to touch her, just a skim of his fingertip down the little dent in her chin. “We hadn’t quite got there, but since we’ve finished it here, I like to think we both have.”

“I meant what I said in there, which I shouldn’t have said in front of Whitney. I can’t have another face on that board.” He watched her face change, watched her let him see what was inside.

“The ones on there now, I couldn’t stop it; I couldn’t save them. But if there’s another, I own it, because I know I have the tools to stop it. To make the best possible effort to stop it.”

“And the warrants aren’t enough?”

“I had to believe it to sell it, so I did. I still do, almost clear through.” She looked away for a moment. “But there’s that fraction, that percentage that maybe they’ve covered everything, that we won’t find enough to charge them—or we’ll charge them, indict them, and that fleet of high-priced lawyers will find enough little holes to spring them. I’m hedging my bets, and I’ve got a couple other ideas that should add more edge. You could help me with them.”

“I suppose I could.”

“Do you know where they’re going to be tonight?”

“They’re attending the ballet, at the Strathmore Center.”

“Can you score us tickets?”

“We have a box. They are, however, meeting for drinks at Lionel’s before the performance.”

“That’ll work even better.” She took his hand, linked fingers. “Let me lay it out for you.”

He had to admit, she’d slapped together an interesting and inventive scenario in very short order. He refined it a bit, and felt as confident as he could.

“I’m going to give Reo another thirty. She should’ve finished talking to her boss by then. I’ll need to brief the team.”

“They’re meeting at seven. That gives you time for an hour’s sleep. Not negotiable,” he said before she objected. “And not on the damn floor. There have to be cots at least in your infirmary.”

“I hate the infirmary.”

“Suck it up,” he advised.

“Mira has a big couch in her session room. I’ll ask if I can use it.”

“Make it we. I could use a lie-down myself.”

She slept like the dead woman a couple of rich guys wanted her to be, then contacted Reo. Again.

“Tell me you’ve got it.”

“I told you I’d contact you when I did. Didn’t I tell you the boss thinks Judge Dwier’s the best hit on this?” The testy edge of frustration came through loud and clear. “No known connections with either family, solid reputation, open-minded, and so on and so on, and didn’t I tell you Judge Dwier is fly-fishing in Montana?”

“And didn’t I say go with another choice?”

“Don’t tell us our jobs. The PA’s talking to the judge right now. He’s walking him through it, and my sense is we’re nearly there. We’re ninety percent there.”

“Close enough. When you’ve got it, tag Baxter. He’ll head up that end.”