Apprentice in Death (In Death 43)

“I was thinking I want pancakes.”

“We can get to that.” He pulled her to the elevator and in. Programmed the destination manually.

“A swim would be good,” she considered. “Might help work out the stiffness.”

When the doors opened she was, for the second time that morning, disoriented. “How many rooms do you . . .”

She trailed off as her gaze arrowed in on the wide U, studded with controls, the sleek leather chair in its curve.

“Command center. Holy shit, holy shit!”

It was, sort of, like walking into the design he’d shown her only days before. The walls painted that quiet, easy color that wasn’t exactly green, wasn’t exactly gray. And the absolute magnificence of her new workstation, an entire wall of screens.

“Did I sleep for a week?”

“You’ve been out of the office, so to speak, for a few days. And the crew took advantage. Double shifts. There are still some details, some work, but it’s up and running.”

“That?” She pointed at the big, wide U of deep—maybe commanding—brown with its flecks and veins of dark green and that not-quite-green base for an array of controls. “That’s up and running?”

“I figured that would be your priority. Test it out.”

She beelined for it, absolutely delighting him. Ran a hand over the stone, studied the controls. “How do I . . .” She laid her hand on a palm screen.

It hummed, but did nothing.

“You haven’t told it what to do, have you?” Amused, Roarke joined her.

“Like . . . Open operations?”

The command center came to life, controls flashing on, glinting like jewels—the sort of jewels she appreciated most.

Operations open, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve.

“Holy shit,” she said again. “Just like that.”

“I had a bit of time this morning. It’ll take a bit more to transfer everything to your comfort zone, but yes, just like that.”

“Okay, open file, Mackie, Willow.”

Accessing. Where would you like the data displayed?

“Wall screen.”

As she hadn’t designated one section, the entire wall filled with data.

“Wow. Ah, display final report by Peabody, Detective Delia. She finished it,” Eve noted when it flashed on. “She wrote it up, filed it. Done.”

Roarke kissed the top of her head. “Done.”

“Wait.” She dropped into the chair, a chair of rich forest-green leather, said, “Ahh.” Swiveled. “Oh, this is it. Seriously it. The redhead with the tits and the boots knows her stuff. I could play with this all day. I’ll need to play with this all day to get up to speed. What else can it—”

“Everything you need. But you might want to take a glance, at least, at the rest.”

She swiveled again, surveyed the room.

The seating area worried her a little. It looked entirely too comfortable with its long, low sofa in forest-shadows green. But not fancy or frilly, even with a couple of pillows tossed on it. A new sleep chair, which Galahad had claimed already.

She rose, wandered, found her board—she only had to roll it out of the slot in the wall.