Apprentice in Death (In Death 43)

“Acknowledged. On my way. Sir.”

“We have a dead cop. I’m coming with you. Let’s move.”

She tagged Peabody on the way. “Garage. Now. We have another strike, Times Square. He got a cop.”

Automatically, Eve turned toward the glides. “They’re faster, sir.”

If anyone thought it odd the commander rushed to keep pace with her, weaving through bodies on the glides, they were discreet enough to keep it to sidelong looks—and most just quickly made a hole.

Halfway down, Whitney grabbed Eve’s arm. “Elevator. I’ll bypass from here.”

When Whitney muscled onto the jammed elevator, cops, not so discreetly, came to attention. And no one bitched—out loud—when he swiped his ID card and called for the garage.

“What level?” he snapped at Eve.

“Level One.”

After ordering it, he glanced at her. “Your rank rates higher.”

“I like Level One.”

“The way you like an office the size of a broom closet.”

“I guess. Yes, sir. Commander, it’s going to be mayhem.”

He pulled a black scarf out of the pocket of the coat he’d yanked on as they’d rushed out of his office. “I’ve dealt with mayhem.”

Eve decided to be discreet, and said nothing.

They shoved off the elevator into the echoing garage. One glance told Eve they’d beaten Peabody, and that gave Whitney time to survey her ride.

“What kind of vehicle is this, and why in hell don’t you have better?”

“It’s my personal vehicle, and better than it looks.” Quickly, she opened the locks, glancing back as she heard the elevator clump. “Take shotgun, sir.”

As he climbed in, she sent a warning stare toward Peabody. “Take the back. The commander’s riding with us.”

Eve slid behind the wheel. “Speed’s key. We’re going hot.”

As Eve turned on the engine, screamed into reverse, Peabody leaned forward and murmured toward Whitney’s ear, “Lock down your safety, sir. Trust me.”

Sirens blaring, Eve burst out of the garage, barely hesitating to make sure traffic had cleared, and zipped around knotted cars, hit vertical to take the turn north.

“What is this thing?” Whitney demanded.

“It’s a DLE, Commander,” Peabody told him, strapped in, gripping the seat with both hands. “It’s not even on the market yet.”

“When it is, I want one.”

So saying, he yanked out his ’link, made his first contact with Chief Tibble.

Eve blocked him out, zigging, zagging, leaping, and shoving her way through knots of traffic.

Multiple strikes on one of the busiest sectors of the city, the eternal party that was Times Square.

And

a dead cop.