“That’s top-of-the-line.” Drawn to the tool, Philippe moved closer. “We invested in a good one, but that’s top-of-the-line.”
“It’s yours,” Eve said on impulse. “When we’re done here.”
“No shit?”
“None whatsoever.” She handed the cutter to Roarke. “Get your gear, go downstairs, back to that lounge area. If we need you out, cops will get you clear. Otherwise, hold tight, keep quiet.”
Eve gave the dog—still clamping the blue bone—a steady stare. “And keep the dog quiet, too, if you can.”
Jan took one more look at the wall. “It’s just paint. And new wiring. And soundproofing.”
Philippe put his arm around her to lead her out. “And every time we look at it, we’ll remember the night we got engaged.”
Eve waited until they were clear, then pulled out her weapon. “Just big enough for us to get through.”
Roarke hunkered down, switched on the tool.
It hummed, but to Eve’s ears Galahad’s sleeping purr pitched louder.
“Curtain’s up,” Feeney said in her ear.
Eve sidestepped to the window, spotted her detectives—hanging on to each other as drunks do. Soundproofing and what she took to be new windows aside, she could hear them singing.
Top of the lungs, she imagined, in some sort of actual harmony.
Stumbling, falling-down drunks, carrying each other home.
Not bad.
She moved back to Roarke, who’d cut a thin line from the baseboard up about two feet, and began to cut another two feet away.
“Can’t you cut faster?”
“Do you want it quiet or fast?”
“Both.”
“Just hold your water, Lieutenant.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Don’t piss yourself,” Feeney informed her.
“Then it oughta be ‘don’t piss yourself.’ He’s nearly through.” She angled her recorder.
“Copy that. He shifted some, but they don’t have a clear shot. Your boys have his attention. Jeez, some street LC’s trying to work them. You see that?”
“I can live without seeing two of my detectives getting propped by an LC. We’ve got a hole. Going through.”
Even as she bellied down, Roarke slid in front of her. She tugged, jerked her thumb behind her, but he just shook his head, and wormed his way through.
“Roarke’s in,” she whispered. “I’m behind him.” She blocked out annoyance—who was the cop here—and slithered through into a room dark as pitch.
Roarke touched her arm, then switched on a penlight.
She followed it, scanning a room about the size of the one they’d left. She made out an air mattress, a sleeping bag, a batt-powered lamp, and a nearly empty bottle of liquor—maybe gin, maybe vodka. Folding table and chair, she noted, with a tablet and a small printer.
The door stood open to more dark.