“Should I go with you?” he asked as he wandered into her closet.
“No need.” She grabbed her pocket debris from the dresser as he walked out with a pale gray V-neck sweater and a pair of black knee boots with gray laces. “Come on.”
“Not so much for fashion—though they work—but for practicality. The temperature dropped overnight, and it’s sleeting, with some wind along with it.”
“Will winter never end?” She took the sweater, tugged it on, sat to pull on the boots.
Already dressed for the business day in one of his perfect suits, Roarke walked back to the AutoChef.
“I don’t have time for breakfast,” she said, rising to strap on her weapon harness.
“For this you do.” He handed her a fat, toasted bread pocket.
“What is it?”
He smiled. “Quick and effective.”
That got a smirk before she bit in. Eggs, creamy, bits of crispy bacon—and something sneaky like spinach.
“Tag me, will you, when you know something? After all, I talked with him as
well.”
“Sure.” She downed the pocket, the rest of the coffee. After scooping a hand through her hair, she pulled on the jacket.
And Roarke pulled her to him, kissed her. “Take care of my cop.”
“Got it.” She bent to give the cat a quick scratch before heading to the door. Stopped. “Waffles or oatmeal?”
“Sorry?”
“When I’m not here is it waffles or oatmeal?”
“I like oatmeal.”
She could only shake her head as she jogged downstairs, bundled in the damn winter gear, and headed out to meet death.
Sleet blew, wet and unpleasant, splattering her windshield. The sun had yet to make an appearance so the wet white streaks streamed in the nasty March wind as her headlights beamed. The streets gleamed black.
She passed a single maxibus, lumbering alone with its load of sleepy passengers fresh off the graveyard shift. She swung onto Eighty-Sixth until she pulled up behind a black-and-white.
A uniform started toward her, nodding when she held up her badge.
“What do you have?”
“Well, we got a couple of college types in the back. They were out for a drunken stroll, saw the floater. The pair of them climbed over the fence, jumped in to pull him out. Beat droids called us in. We got them in the back keeping warm.”
“I’ll take them first.”
Eve opened the door of the cruiser, took a look at the two men—maybe twenty—shivering under heat blankets.
She crouched down. “Lieutenant Dallas. Let’s hear it.”
“Man, Jesus, we were just taking a walk, right?”
“Right.”
He had smooth cocoa-colored skin, a little gray under it, and wide, wide brown eyes. She could smell the nerves, the water, and the cheap brew pumping off him.