Survivor in Death (In Death 20)

In all the time they’d worked together, Eve had seen Peabody pissed, hurt, sad, and ready to rumble. But she’d never seen her boiling with all of it. A choice had to be made, and quickly. Plow in, step back.

And just as quickly, Eve decided to do neither. Her eyes stayed steady, her stance at the ready. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

There was a blink, then two. “Dallas—”

“All hot and steamy. If I went for girls, I’d jump you right now.”

There was a tremble along the jaw that rippled into a reluctant smile. And just like that, the crisis passed.

“I didn’t call you in for the reasons I just told you. Plus this one.” Her hand snapped out, fast as a flicked whip and connected with Peabody’s ribs.

Peabody’s breath sucked in, and her face lost all color—until it came back with a faint tinge of green. “That was just mean. Even for you.”

“Yeah, and telling. You’re not a hundred percent yet. You don’t get your downtime, you’re no good to me.” Eve crossed to the AutoChef, ordered up a bottle of water as Peabody leaned against the desk and got her breath back. “I can’t afford to worry about you, and I am. I don’t like seeing you hurting.”

“That nearly makes up for the punch in the ribs.”

“The fact that you called that tap a punch ought to tell you something.” She handed Peabody the water. “You nearly died.”

“Well, Jesus, Dallas.”

“You nearly died,” Eve repeated, and it was partner to partner now, a unity tighter than most marriages. “I was afraid you would. Sick and afraid.”

“I know,” Peabody replied. “I get that.”

“I cleared you to come back because medical said you could handle light duty. This isn’t turning out to be light. I’m not taking you off this case because I know if I were in your shoes—which would never happen, as I’d have to be beaten unconscious before you’d get those pink airboots on my feet—”

Peabody’s lips twitched. “Salmon.”

“What, you’re hungry?”

“No.” Peabody took another sip of water and laughed, then winced and rubbed her ribs. “The shoes. The color’s salmon.”

“More the reason. I’m really going to wear fish shoes. So—God, what was I saying?”

“You’re not taking me off because . . .”

“Because if it were me, the job’s going to take my mind off the fact I nearly got taken out.”

“It does. I’ve woken up sweaty a few times the last weeks, which has nothing to do with mattress dancing with McNab. But it’s getting better. I’m getting better. I need to work.”

“Agreed. In addition to the above reasons, I didn’t call you in tonight because . . .”

She reached past Peabody to close the door. “ . . . I sent them in. Knight and Preston. I knew them, too, and I sent them in, and now they’re dead. I had to deal with that first, on my own. Now I have, so let’s get to work.”

Peabody sat. “I wasn’t mad at you. Well, yeah, I was, but it was easier to be mad at you, to let it center there, than . . .”

“I know that, too. Get some coffee.”

“Hey, you actually offered me coffee.”

“I meant get some coffee for me, but you can have some, too.”

Peabody pushed up, went to the AutoChef. While she programmed, she studied the board. “What have we got?”

It didn’t take long to brief her.

“Have you got a copy of the ’link transmission? I’d like to hear it.”