Echoes in Death (In Death 44)

When Tish went back in, Eve thought, yes, they would.

* * *

Tired from the marrow out, she drove home. She’d recharge, she promised herself. Coffee, lots of coffee would pump her right back up.

She had items checked off her list. The Miras’ security—thanks to Roarke—was beefed up. Daphne Strazza and family had rooms waiting for their arrival the next day. And she had a theory to follow right down the line.

Multiple theories, she admitted, and felt fatigue fall over her as she drove through the gates.

Can’t let up, she thought, not on this one. So many reasons she couldn’t let up, reasons she wasn’t sure she could adequately explain to anyone.

She left the car, went in the house. Found annoyance on the heels of relief when neither Summerset nor the cat waited. Where the hell were they? She’d have dug up a decent insult. She was tired, not brain-dead.

She walked upstairs, decided to go straight to her office. If she went to the bedroom first, that big, wonderful bed might tempt her to take a nap.

No time for naps.

She heard Roarke’s voice coming from his adjoining office, turned that way.

He’d snazzed his space up, too, and right now had the dual-sided fireplace he shared with her snapping. He sat at his own command center—sleek, powerful black—talking on an ear-link while a holo of some sort of … mechanical-like thing circled slowly and his wall screen ran with numbers, figures, maybe equations.

Galahad sprawled over one of the legs of the command center, tail switching as he eyed the holo.

She gave Roarke a half salute, stepped back into her own space.

For a moment she just stood, staring at her board, staring at the dead, the blood, the cruelty.

Grimly, she tossed her coat aside, the scarf and cap with it, and began the work by adding the last victims to the board. Then the crime scene photos, the ME’s findings, the lab results—no hair, no fibers, no DNA.

She expanded the board—a handy new feature—and put up ID shots and data of the couples interviewed that day. She looked over as Roarke walked in, the cat padding ahead of him to greet her with body rubs.

“You looked busy,” she said.

“Just a few final touches on the meeting I was in when you contacted me earlier.”

“I’m sorry to add more stuff to your day.”

“Why? It all gets done, doesn’t it? Dennis was a bit baffled and more than fascinated with the new toys I added to their system. Our Mira was initially annoyed you’d … add stuff to my day and your own, but she came around.

“And you, Lieutenant,” he continued as

he went to her, skimming a finger down the dent in her chin, “look tired.”

“It’s not that kind of tired.”

She surprised them both when he drew her in for a kiss by clinging to him, by the tears that spilled.

“There now. What is it?”

She shook her head, clung tighter. “I can’t explain. I can’t. Just, just hang on, okay? Hang on. I have to let go. I just have to let go.”

He picked her up, carried her to the sofa, cradled her on his lap. “Let go then, baby. I’m right here.”

The words, the way he held her, stroked her hair, had the grief, the exhaustion from fighting it, the sheer sorrow pouring out.

“I can’t explain,” she managed when the tears slowed.

“We’ll worry about that later.”