Golden in Death (In Death 50)

She programmed coffee on the in-dash, tagged APA Reo.

“Please no,” Reo answered. “I’m on my way home, stuck in stupid traffic. All I want is an alcoholic beverage and quiet.”

“You can have both after you get me a warrant. I’m just heading home myself—so too bad for us.”

Reo sighed, tossed her head so her fluffy blond hair shimmered and swayed. “I’m getting out of this cab and walking. Pull over,” she ordered the driver, and Eve went to blue holding mode while she assumed Reo paid the fare.

When she came back on-screen it bobbled as she strode along. “It’s the as-yet-unidentified-substance case, isn’t it?”

“They better have that as identified soon, and yeah. Victim was a doctor—baby doctor—and I’m interviewing his staff first thing in the morning. I need the electronics.”

“You’re not going to get medical records in a walk, or by morning.”

“Just get me the rest—they can hold off on the privacy stuff for now. I need to know if he had any record of someone threatening him, any correspondence that sends off an alarm. Or if anyone on staff had issues.”

“I can work that. I heard you were exposed. You don’t look exposed to a deadly toxin.”

“Whatever it was, it was as dead as Abner by the time we got there.”

“Well, that’s a bright side. I’ll get back to you on the warrant.”

“Appreciate it.”

“You still owe me a drink from the last one.”

“I’ll make good. Later.”

Eve clicked off, drank coffee, pushed her way uptown.

And as she pushed, it occurred to her that only a week before she’d been sitting on a terrace in Italy, drinking wine under the stars after a day of basking in the sun.

Eating pasta, sleeping late, having a lot of sex.

And no one had been murdered in the general vicinity—at least that she knew of.

Life since Roarke, with Roarke, never quite ranked as ordinary. Routine, maybe, for them—which probably wouldn’t meet most people’s routine level.

But it worked—really worked, she thought. And one of the reasons it worked, so well, was knowing she’d come home—and there was a glittering word—with this fresh weight on her shoulders, and he’d be there.

He’d look at her the way he looked at her that always, still, probably forever, brought a skip to her heartbeat. He’d make her eat something, even if she didn’t want to, which was both annoying and precious.

And he’d listen. No bitching about her being late, no guilt trips. He’d listen, offer to help and, with all of that, with all of him, bring her a peace of mind she’d never expected to have in her life.

So when she drove, at last, through the gates, she felt that quiet click. Coming home. Under the night sky, the house Roarke built stood and spread and towered with its fanciful turrets, its grand design. Dozens of windows, so much light to welcome her, glowed out against the dark.

When she pulled up, got out of the car, some of the weight shifted. Work to do, yes, but home.

Because she was late—really late—she didn’t expect the looming Summerset.

But there he stood, tall and bony in black, his cadaverous face set, his dark eyes arrowing their stare at her face.

She reached into her bag of insults, but he spoke before she could pull one out.

“He’s worried. He’ll pretend otherwise, but he heard about your exposure to a toxic material.”

“I told him I was fine. I’m fine.”

When Summerset only continued to stare, she had a bad feeling the former Urban War medic intended to do his own exam. Big no.