“I’m not going to kick her while she’s down, Clooney.” Eve shoved through the doors, caught herself, turned back. “I didn’t know him,” she said more calmly, “but he was murdered, and he was a cop. That’s enough for me. Okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“Christ, I hate this.” She followed Roth to the elevator. “How do you do it?” she asked Clooney. “The counseling thing. How do you stand it?”
“To tell you the truth, they tapped me for it because I have a way with keeping the peace. Mediation,” he added with a quick smile. “I agreed to survivor counseling, to give it a try, and found I could do some good. You know what they feel—every stage of it.”
He pressed his lips together as they stepped onto the elevator. The smile was long gone. “You stand it because maybe you can help . . . just a little. It makes a difference if the counselor’s a cop. And I’ve discovered in the last few months it makes a bigger one if the counselor’s a cop who experienced a loss. You ever lose a family member, Lieutenant?”
Eve flashed on a dingy room, the bloody husk of a man, and the child she’d been, huddled broken in a corner. “I don’t have any family.”
“Well . . .” was all Clooney said as they stepped off on the fourth floor.
She would know, and they were all aware of it. A cop’s spouse would know the minute she opened the door. How the words were spoken varied little, and it didn’t matter a damn. The minute the door opened, lives were irrevocably changed.
They didn’t have the chance to knock before it began.
Patsy Kohli was a pretty woman with smooth, ebony skin and a closely cropped thatch of black curls. She was dressed to go out, a baby sling strapped across her breasts. The small boy at her side had his hand clasped in hers as he danced frantically in place.
“Let’s go swing! Let’s go swing!”
But his mother had frozen in place, the laughter that had been in her eyes dying away. She lifted one hand, pressing it to the baby, and the baby to her heart.
“Taj.”
Roth had taken off her sunshades. Her eyes were coldly blue, rigidly blank. “Patsy. We need to come in.”
“Taj.” Patsy stood where she was, slowly shaking her head. “Taj.”
“Here now, Patsy.” Clooney moved in, sliding an arm around her shoulders. “Why don’t we sit down?”
“No. No. No.”
The little boy began to cry, wailing yelps as he tugged on his mother’s unresponsive hand. Both Roth and Eve looked down at him with stares of sheer, hot panic.
Peabody eased inside, crouched down to his level.
“Hi, pal.”
“Going swing,” he said pitifully, while great tears spilled down his chubby cheeks.
“Yeah. Lieutenant, why don’t I take the boy out?”
“Good idea. Good thinking.” Her stomach was busily tying itself into knots at the rising sobs. “Mrs. Kohli, with your permission, my officer will take your son outside for awhile. I think that would be best.”
“Chad.” Patsy stared down as if coming out of a dream. “We’re going to the park. Two blocks over. The swings.”
“I’ll take him, Mrs. Kohli. We’ll be fine.” With an ease that had Eve frowning, Peabody lifted the boy, set him on her hip. “Hey, Chad, you like soy dogs?”
“Patsy, why don’t you give me your little girl there.” Gently, Clooney unhooked the sling, slipped the baby free. Then, to Eve’s shock, he passed the bundle to her.
“Oh listen, I can’t—”
But Clooney was already guiding Pasty to the sofa, and Eve was left holding the bag. Or so she thought of it. Wincing, she looked down, and when big, black eyes stared curiously up at her, her palms went damp.
And when the baby said, “Coo,” she lost all the spit in her mouth.
She searched the room for help. Clooney and Roth were already flanking Pasty, and Clooney’s voice was a quiet murmur. The room was small and lived-in, with a scatter of toys on the rug and a scent—one she didn’t recognize—that was talc and crayons and sugar. The scent of children.