Indulgence in Death (In Death 31)

“Nobody controls me, asshole. You want to leave.” She turned on Roarke. “Fine. Go. Why don’t you just go wherever you’re shuttling off to right now instead of tomorrow and get off my back?”

“That’s an excellent idea. Gentlemen, my sincere apologies. You can get yourself home,” he said to Eve.

“I’ll get there, when I’m good and ready.” As Roarke walked out, she spun back to the booth. “The department won’t give me the money to go full-out on you two. Screw them. He’ll give it to me.” She jerked her head in the direction Roarke had taken. “I know how to get what I want. The PA may not have the balls to give me a go now, but give me time. I close cases. I’ll close this.”

She grabbed one of the drinks on the table, tossed back a swallow before slamming it down again. “Did you think I wouldn’t see? Using your people as dupes, covering each other’s ass while the other one gets the kill in? You both knew the last two victims, and I’ll find how you knew the first two. I’m the hot breath on your neck.”

“You’re making a fool of yourself,” Moriarity told her—but his gaze shifted to Dudley’s.

“Like Delaflote made a fool out of the Dudleys when he was nailing Winnie’s mommy?” She bared her teeth in a smile. “Oh, yeah, I know. I know a lot. Nearly there, boys. Nearly time to pay the bill.”

“Madam.” The hostess came over, eyes full of apologies for the men. “I have to ask you to leave.”

“No problem. I can find better places to drink than a dump that serves scum like these two. Drink up,” she told both men. “They don’t serve fancy liquor in the cages you’re going to be in within forty-eight. And that’s just where I’m going to put you. You can bet on it.”

Eve almost wished she wore a cape so she could’ve swirled it as she stormed out of the room.

She kept storming a block north, turned, and kept the pace another half a block. Feeney opened the back of the e-van. She hopped in, yanked off the shoes. “How’d I do?”

“If I was married to you, I’d be divorced.”

Roarke took her hand, kissed it. “She’s a bitch, but she’s my bitch.”

She tapped her ear. “Peabody reports they’re in intense conversation. It looks to her like Dudley’s trying to convince Moriarity, is pushing a point.”

“I can hear her.” Roarke tapped in turn. “You’re not the only one with ears.”

“Oh. That was a good idea, putting it out you’d be gone tonight. They’re going to want to make their move.”

She turned her wrist when her com signaled. “Check this,” she said to Feeney. “Dallas.”

“Reo pulled it off,” Baxter told her. “We got the warrants.”

“Don’t go in yet. Give them some time. If this worked, one or both of them is going to show up at one of the houses or one of the HQs where they have private quarters. They need to get the weapon. Let them come and go. No longer than ten minutes in. It’s over that, move in. I don’t want to have spooked them into ditching any evidence, but if we take them in with a weapon, we’re going to add attempted on a police officer. That’s the icing on the cupcake.”

“We’re on hold.”

“Seems a shame to waste the performance,” she said to Roarke. “Damn it.” She scowled at Peabody’s voice in her ear. “They’re ordering another drink. Maybe they’re not going to bite after all. Stick with them,” she ordered Peabody, then answered the com again. “What?”

“Movement at the Moriarity house. It’s the droid, Dallas, the same droid we have going into the Frost/Simpson house.”

She shook her head in wonder. “God, they are idiots. They didn’t destroy the droid, and odds are he’ll bring them the weapon. I want a team on that droid. I want to know where it goes, what it does. When it’s clear of the house, move in. All locations.”

She rubbed her bare foot. “They bit.”

“I believe they did,” Roarke commented.

22

EVE TRIED TO IGNORE THE FACT THAT FEENEY and Roarke were talking in e-geek. That was bad enough, but on the other side of her McNab and Peabody snuggled up together like a couple of sleepy puppies, and she was pretty sure the murmurs and giggles were some sort of sex talk.

If she didn’t get out of the damn van soon, she’d commit mass murder. She’d use the ice-pick heel of one of the arch-throbbing red shoes to skewer geek and puppy brains.

They’d make a good weapon, she considered. With the right force, the right angle, you probably could skewer brains.

Maybe that’s why women wore them, as a just in case I have to kill somebody tool. That, at least, made some sense. Except it would make more sense to wear them on your hands where they’d be right there if you needed—

Her homicidal thoughts scattered as Carmichael spoke in her ear.