Vendetta in Death (In Death 49)

“I know it.” She muttered it, scowled at her own beer.

“And the fact that I now lean more toward yours can still surprise me, but t

here you have it. And I see, too, because I know my cop, what else is in that heart and mind of yours, and you need to put that part of it away, as you’re nothing like the one you’re hunting.”

She started to object, then to dissemble, then just shrugged and drank some beer.

But he knew his cop, his wife, his woman, and pressed.

“You were a terrorized child who took a life to save her own. You suffered for it more and for longer than you’d ask of another.”

“I know what it’s like to make that choice.”

Because the flash of fury that spiked inside him wasn’t what she needed, he smothered it, and spoke in practical tones.

“And more bollocks to that, as it wasn’t a choice planned or calculated, or even on impulse. It was live or die in the moment. Pity the child you were, Eve, and stand for her as you would for any victim.”

“I know it was self-defense. I know you’re right.”

“And if you didn’t still have these moments of inner conflict, you wouldn’t be the cop or the woman you are. I’m madly in love with the woman you are, even though she’s a cop.”

She started to smile, then sighed. “Shit, shit. Couple walking this way—he’s mid-forties, beige jacket, about five-ten, a hundred and sixty. Tell them to wait here while I get his wallet back.”

With that, she vaulted over the low wall to the sidewalk, zipped through the throng of pedestrians, and jogged toward the street thief making good time toward the corner.

She tapped his shoulder. “Bad luck,” she said when his head swiveled toward her. As he shifted to sprint, she simply stuck out her foot, tripped him. He went down in a sprawl, coat flapping.

“Bad luck,” she repeated, whipped his arms behind his back, slapped on restraints. “It was a pretty decent bump and grab, too.”

He cried, “Help! Help!” so Eve just rolled her eyes, took out her badge. Pedestrians veed around them like a fork in a river.

Since he flopped and squirmed—and would likely try to bolt even with the restraints—she just put a boot on his ass, called for uniforms.

By the time she wound it up, Roarke had the couple seated at the table with Irish coffees. “Lieutenant, this is Mark and Jeannie Horchow from Toledo. They’re in New York to celebrate their fifteenth anniversary.”

“Okay,” Eve began. “Mr. Horchow—”

“I never felt a thing! I don’t know how he got my wallet.”

“He’d consider that his job. I’m afraid you’ll need to go into the Fifteenth Precinct to retrieve your belongings, as he had several other stolen articles in his possession. An officer will transport you, and walk you through the process.”

“Oh my!” Jeannie, all bubbly blond hair and wide eyes, goggled up at Eve.

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No, no! We wouldn’t have even known, would we, Mark? We were just walking, and … We can’t thank you enough. So kind!”

She glanced over as the black-and-white pulled to the curb. “We’re going to ride in a police car. Wait until we tell the kids.”

Mark laughed a little, rose, offered Roarke his hand. “We appreciate it, very much. Thank you, Lieutenant.” He offered his hand to Eve. “We really enjoyed The Icove Agenda. Who knew we’d end up being rescued by Dallas and Roarke?”

“Wait until we tell the kids,” Jeannie said again.

Eve waited until she watched them get in the cruiser, then since it was quicker, vaulted over the barricade again. Even as she sat, the server set another half pint in front of her.

“The other went warm,” Roarke told her. “And you’d barely touched it.”

“Okay.” She touched it now, drank. Then she smiled. “I feel better.” He smiled right back. “Thought you would.”