“Go with Peabody, get the traffic discs from the toll booths. All discs, all levels, for the last twenty-four hours.”
“All?”
“We’re going to be thorough, and maybe we’ll get lucky. Start scanning them, starting backward with this level from twenty hundred hours. Find me this vehicle.”
“You got it.”
“Peabody, do a standard background on James Stein, the Good Samaritan. I don’t expect you to find anything, but let’s clear him out. Report, my home office, oh eight hundred.”
“You’ve got Lewis in the morning,” Peabody reminded her. “I’m scheduled for six-thirty at Central.”
“I’ll handle Lewis. You’re going to be putting in a long night.”
“So are you.” Peabody’s face turned mulish. “I’ll report to Central as ordered, Lieutenant.”
“Christ, have it your own way.” Eve dragged a hand through her hair and reorganized her thoughts. “Have the first uniforms on-scene provide your transpo. One of them’s a hot dog. He needs something to do.”
She turned away from them, strode to Roarke. “I have to ditch you.”
“I’ll ride with you to Central, then find transportation home.”
“I’m not going to Central straight off. I have some stops to make. I’ll have one of the black and whites take you back.”
He looked toward the units with mild disdain. “I believe I’ll find my own transportation, thanks all the same.”
Why, she thought, was everyone arguing with her tonight? “I’m not going to just leave you on the damn bridge.”
“I can find my way home, Lieutenant. Where are you going?”
“Just some things I have to do before I write my report.” His voice was so damn cool, she thought. His eyes so detached. “How long are you going to be pissed off at me?”
“I haven’t decided. But I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“You’re making me feel like a jerk.”
“Darling, you managed that perfectly well on your own.”
Guilt and temper tangled inside her, had her glaring at him. “Well, fuck it,” she said, then grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, yanked him to her, and kissed him hard. “See you later,” she muttered and stalked away.
“Count on it.”
chapter eight
Don Webster was awakened out of a dead sleep by what he initially took to be a particularly violent thunderstorm. When the clouds cleared from his brain, he decided someone was trying to beat through the walls of his apartment with a sledgehammer.
As he reached for his weapon, he realized someone was pounding on his door.
He pulled on jeans, took his weapon with him, and went to look through his security peep.
A dozen thoughts ran through his head, a morass of pleasure, fantasy, and discomfort. He opened the door to Eve.
“Just in the neighborhood?” he said.
“You son of a bitch.” She shoved him back, slammed the door behind her. “I want answers, and I want them now.”
“You never were much on foreplay.” The minute it was out, he regretted it. He covered that with a cocky grin. “What’s up?”
“What’s down, Webster, is another cop.”