Secrets in Death (In Death 45)

She walked out to retrieve her weapon harness, clutch piece, restraints, and everything she carried on her person, her belt, in pockets.

She caught Roarke’s eye as she strapped on her clutch piece.

“What?” Part of her wanted to whine. “Forget it. I’m not changing.”

“On the contrary. I was just thinking you look very professional, with an edge.”

She glanced toward the mirror, thought she looked normal. “And that’s good?”

“That’s you, Lieutenant.”

“Then it works. I’m heading out, so—”

He gestured with his coffee. “You forgot to slap your face.”

“Slap my … Oh, crap.”

She dashed into the bathroom, dug out the face cream. Slapped it on.

Took a second or two to stare at herself. She, a trained observer, and one who damn well knew her own face, couldn’t see a damn bit of difference.

But Trina would know. Yeah, it was creepy.

She dashed out again.

“I’m going to be like ten in my office, finishing up there, then I’m in the field.”

“I’ve one or two things yet to see to here myself. I’d appreciate if you’d keep me updated on this case, and any progress you make. My place, after all.”

“I’ll do that.”

She walked over, kissed him. “I’ll text you if I learn anything you’d want to know.”

He pulled her back for another. “Take care of my cop.”

“That?

??s Bitch Cop.”

“Not to me—unless it’s to my advantage.”

“It’s always to mine.”

7

Ad blimps chugged through washed-out winter skies blasting hype for midwinter sales. As if, Eve thought as she pushed through traffic, nobody had anything better to do than shop.

And if the cost of winter coats could be Slashed! Sixty Percent Off! in February, why didn’t stores charge less for them in, say, October, and move the damn inventory?

Just because certain people could toss around four figures for a pair of boots? To borrow from ancient slang, that was whack.

She glanced down at the boots currently on her feet, told herself not to think about it. Reminded herself those boots would likely see considerable mileage before the closet fairies disappeared them.

And she had a killer to catch.

As she bulled her way downtown, she decided to multitask and tagged Nadine.

It didn’t surprise her to see Nadine Furst, dogged crime-beat reporter, bestselling crime writer, and all-around smart girl, come on screen within seconds.