Devoted in Death (In Death 41)

“Waterproof, insulated,” he told her. “Your feet will be happier.”

“How many pairs of boots do I have in there?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You keep buying them, so you ought to know.” She tugged the sweater on, shoved at her hair when her head came out.

And he kissed her. “One of my small pleasures. Would you deny me?”

She took the boots, sat down. Felt the warmth, the solid support the minute her feet were inside. “Do you know how many pairs of boots I had before I met you?”

He only smiled as she rose, reached for her weapon harness – which told her he undoubtedly did.

“Two, and one pair didn’t really count as they were emergency use only because they were trashed. I still caught the bad guys.”

“You did. Now you get to catch them with more comfortable and stylish feet.”

She took the jacket from him, put it on and began to stow what she needed in various pockets. “You know I married you for sex and coffee, not boots.”

“Isn’t it nice, then, to have the bonus?”

This time she grabbed his face, kissed him. “Yeah. I’m going to grab a few things from the office here, then I’m in the field. See you tonight.”

“I’ll be here until about eleven, I’m thinking, if you’ve need of me. Meanwhile, take care of my cop.”

“Nearly top of my list,” she said and strode out.

“It’s not, no, not nearly top.” He glanced over, saw the cat had managed to take advantage of the distraction and snag the bit of bacon still on Eve’s plate. “And that’s why you continue to try, isn’t it? Now and again, you hoist the prize.”

Galahad ran his tongue over his whiskers, and belched.

By the time she got downstairs her coat lay draped over the newelpost with the Peabody scarf folded neatly over it, the Mr. Mira snowflake hat on that, and a fresh pair of gloves added to the mix.

She thought to stuff the hat in her pocket, thought of the thick snow, reconsidered. She’d just look at it like a good-luck charm, she decided. Until she managed to lose it like she lost every hat and every pair of gloves she’d ever owned. She wound the scarf on, and because dangling ends were – to her mind – an opponent’s opportunity to strangle in any hand-to-hand, tucked them inside the coat.

Pulling the gloves on, she walked out into the wall of snow where her car already sat running, heaters, she imagined, turned to blast.

Routine, she thought again. Such things had become routine. That didn’t mean she took them for granted.

She imagined Summerset had given a dry, ghoulish snicker as he set out the snowflake hat, and sniffed when he’d set out the surely doomed gloves. But he’d put them out.

“So thanks,” she muttered, and drove off in her warm, ugly car.

She sent Peabody a voice mail, letting her partner know she was checking out a possible missing persons, and to plan to report to Central as usual.

“Push on the potentials I copied you on,” she added. “Let’s get a sense of the vics, and the local cops on them. If anything rings on this possible I’m checking, I’ll bring you in.”

She could have Baxter and Trueheart start on the two she hadn’t reviewed thoroughly, she considered. But it could wait.

She worked her way down to NoHo, forced to drive defensively on every block. Because there were snow-phobic morons on every block, she concluded. Which included pedestrians in such a hurry to get out of the snow, they didn’t bother to look when they used the crosswalk.

Maxibuses inched along until she wanted to obliterate every last one of them – and she comforted herself that at least the weather held off the hyping ad blimps.

It took her twice as long as it should have to get to Bond, and the shock of finding a parking space nearly in front of the building almost caused her to lose it to a sneaky sedan.

She hit the sirens, shocked the sneaky sedan, and slid smoothly into the space.

The sedan, obviously pissed and suspicious, remained inches away. Eve stepped out of the car, thinking: Want to take me on, pal?