Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

“You’re not alone. I won’t leave you alone.”

“They didn’t want me. No one ever did. He did.”

“I want you.” He stroked her hair, her back, calming the tremors. “From the first moment I saw you, I wanted you.”

“There were so many other children.” She loosened her grip, let him lay her back, hold her close. “Then only me, and I knew he’d come. Why won’t he leave me alone?”

“He won’t come back tonight.” Roarke took her hand, pressed it to his chest so she could feel his heart beating. “He won’t come back because there’s the both of us here, and he’s too much the coward.”

“Both of us,” she repeated, and left her hand on his heart while she slept.

He was up and dressed when she woke, and monitoring the stock reports on-screen in the sitting area over a cup of coffee. He turned as she rolled out of bed.

“How are you?”

“About half,” she said. “I think I can make three-quarters after a shower.”

She started to walk toward the bath, then paused, changed directions, and walked to him. She bent, touched her lips to his forehead in a simple gesture of affection that left him moved and puzzled.

“You’re there with me even when you’re not. So thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She crossed to the bath, glanced over her shoulder. “Sometimes you being there is annoying. But mostly it’s not.”

The worry in his own mind cleared. With a laugh he turned back to the financial news and drank his coffee.

Just before seven, Eve opened her own office door to find Baxter at her desk, enjoying what appeared to be a hearty breakfast.

“Detective Baxter, your ass seems to have somehow ended up in my chair. I’d like it removed immediately so I can kick every inch of it.”

“Soon as I’m done. This is actual ham in these actual eggs.” He jerked a chin toward the wall screen where updated reports were displayed. “You don’t sleep much, do you, Dallas? Damn busy night. I see you took my boy for a hell of a ride.”

“Your boy complain?”

“Hey, Trueheart’s no whiner.”

His instinctive defense of his aide cooled Eve’s temper. “Oh right. I must’ve mixed him up with you.”

“Must’ve been some flight.”

“Yeah, fun while it lasted.” Since he’d been courteous—or greedy—enough to program an entire pot of coffee, she poured herself a cup. “Whitney ripped me a new one over it.”

“He’s been off the street a long time. You had a call to make and made it.”

She jerked a shoulder. “Maybe he’d have done the same, and maybe he knows I’d do the same again, given the same circumstances. But it was a hell of a screwup, and a righteous ripping. It won’t come down on Trueheart.”

“He’d handle it if he had do. Appreciate you seeing it doesn’t. How much of a punch are you going to take?”

“Written and oral reports to the review board. Fuck. Might get myself a departmental censure in my file. I can back up my actions, justify the call, but they won’t like it, and will like it less when the civil suits start piling up.”

“You collar three mercenary terrorists responsible for the deaths of twelve people—including cops—the heat gets turned way down.”

“Yeah. The same way if I don’t get them soon, the heat keeps heading up. I’ll handle it; I’m not a whiner either. But I want these fucking guys, Baxter.”

She turned to the door as the rest of the team began to arrive. “If you’re going to eat, get it and chow it down fast,” she ordered. “We’ve got a lot to go over in a short amount of time.”

Briefings and reports, cop chatter and coffee. And the chatter cut off, as if a knife had sliced down, when Don Webster, Internal Affairs Bureau, strolled in.