“You do that very well,” Roarke murmured. “Slide right into the cop’s skin. And it fits you perfectly.”
“It better. Don’t bother seeing me out. I can find my way.”
“Eve.”
She stopped at the doorway, looked back. There he was, a figure in black surrounded by eons of violence. Inside the cop’s skin, the woman’s heart stuttered.
“We’ll see each other again.”
She nodded. “Count on it.”
He let her go, knowing Summerset would slip out of some shadow to give her the leather jacket, bid her good night.
Alone, Roarke took the gray fabric button from his pocket, the one he’d found on the floor of his limo. The one that had fallen from the jacket of that drab gray suit she’d worn the first time he’d seen her.
Studying it, knowing he had no intention of giving it back to her, he felt like a fool.
chapter six
A rookie was guarding the door to Lola Starr’s apartment. Eve pegged him as such because he barely looked old enough to order a beer, his uniform looked as if it had just been lifted from the supply rack, and from the faint green cast of his skin.
A few months of working thi
s neighborhood, and a cop stopped needing to puke at the sight of a corpse. Chemi-heads, the street LCs, and just plain bad asses liked to wale on each other along these nasty blocks as much for entertainment as for business profits. From the smell that had greeted her outside, someone had died out there recently, or the recycle trucks hadn’t been through in the last week.
“Officer.” She paused, flashed her badge. He’d gone on alert the moment she’d stepped out of the pitiful excuse for an elevator. Instinct warned her, rightly enough, that without the quick ID, she’d have been treated to a stun from the weapon his shaky hand was gripping.
“Sir.” His eyes were spooked and unwilling to settle on one spot.
“Give me the status.”
“Sir,” he said again, and took a long unsteady breath. “The landlord flagged down my unit, said there was a dead woman in the apartment.”
“And is there . . .” Her gaze flicked down to the name pinned over his breast pocket. “Officer Prosky?”
“Yes, sir, she’s . . .” He swallowed, hard, and Eve could see the horror flit over his face again.
“And how did you determine the subject is terminated, Prosky? You take her pulse?”
A flush, no healthier than the green hue, tinted his cheeks. “No, sir. I followed procedure, preserved crime scene, notified headquarters. Visual confirmation of termination, the scene is uncorrupted.”
“The landlord went in?” All of this she could learn later, but she could see that he was steadying as she forced him to go over the steps.
“No, sir, he says not. After a complaint by one of the victim’s clients who had an appointment for nine P.M., the landlord checked the apartment. He unlocked the door and saw her. It’s only one room, Lieutenant Dallas, and she’s—You see her as soon as you open the door. Following the discovery, the landlord, in a state of panic, went down to the street and flagged down my patrol unit. I immediately accompanied him back to the scene, made visual confirmation of suspicious death, and reported in.”
“Have you left your post, officer? However briefly?”
His eyes settled finally, met hers. “No, sir, lieutenant. I thought I’d have to, for a minute. It’s my first, and I had some trouble maintaining.”
“Looks like you maintained fine to me, Prosky.” Out of the crime bag she’d brought up with her, she took out the protective spray, used it. “Make the calls to forensics and the ME. The room needs to be swept, and she’ll need to be bagged and tagged.”
“Yes, sir. Should I remain on post?”
“Until the first team gets here. Then you can report in.” She finished coating her boots, glanced up at him. “You married, Prosky?” she asked as she snapped her recorder to her shirt.
“No, sir. Sort of engaged though.”
“After you report in, go find your lady. The ones who go for the liquor don’t last as long as the ones who have a nice warm body to lose it in. Where do I find the landlord?” she asked and turned the knob on the unsecured door.