Golden in Death (In Death 50)

“It’s my pocket.”

Just as irked, he simply stuffed the bills in that pocket. “And now it holds sufficient to see a professional through a workday. Don’t be more of an arse about it than necessary.”

She might have yanked the bills out, tossed them back at him. But that would make her feel like an arse.

Ass, damn it.

Instead she marched over, pulled open a drawer, and dug out a memo cube. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, owes Moneybags Roarke … How much is it?”

Unsure now if he was amused or annoyed, he angled his head. “Five hundred. That’s USD for the record.”

“Five hundred dollars. American.” She tossed the cube on a table. Then shrugged the jacket over her harness. “I’ve gotta go.”

“See that you take care of my irritable cop.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She headed out. “And the cat’s got syrup all over his face.”

She kept going, but heard Roarke’s “Bloody hell,” and smirked her way down. She swung on the leather jacket waiting on the newel post and kept going.

Outside it surprised her to see those yellow trumpet things had opened and waved, yellow as the butter on her waffles, in the light breeze.

How did they do that, just pop open when you weren’t looking?

She hopped in the car, noted other things were popping out, too. White things, pink things, purple things. How did they know it was safe? How did they know the temps wouldn’t drop and kill them all dead?

Maybe they didn’t care.

Since annoyance had her leaving early, she opted to drive to the crime scene first. And drummed her fingers on the wheel as she navigated.

She’d meant to hit a machine for more cash. She’d forgotten, that’s all. That didn’t make her careless. It made her busy.

Plus, the way he’d just shoved the damn money in her damn pocket was just so … Roarke. And now she had too much money in her pocket, and had to stop and get more in case she spent some to pay him back, so she’d have more too much in her pocket.

It made her tired.

So she put it out of her mind, contacted the hospital to get Cilla Roe’s schedule. When she learned the surgical nurse had the morning off, she texted Peabody the address with orders to meet her there.

And pulled up near the Abner-Rufty townhouse.

She’d yet to order the scene cleared, so crime scene tape still slashed across the door. Since the sweepers had filed their report, she’d handle that today.

But for now she studied the angles, moved down the sidewalk, strode back up again.

Wasn’t going to play, she decided.

She moved to the entrance, cut the tape, mastered in.

The smell of death and sweepers’ dust hadn’t cleared, either. Ignoring both, she checked the windows, considered, moved to the back and the kitchen area.

And studying the congealed blood, the vomit, the assorted bodily fluids defiling the kitchen floor, she thought of Rufty coming home to this.

Avoiding the worst, she circled, checked the windows, the angles, the eyelines.

Didn’t play. Just didn’t.

She didn’t reseal the door when she left, but decided she’d wait to officially clear it. Abner’s family needed to hire a crime scene cleaner before any of them went back in there.

She waded through traffic to Roe’s building. A solid fifteen-minute walk to the hospital, she calculated as she hunted for parking.