Glory in Death - J. D. Robb [99]
She struggled with the lie, gave up to the truth. “Yes.”
“Get over it,” he said with a snap. “The trouble with this case is, there’s too much emotion. Jack can’t get past his grief, you can’t get past your guilt. That makes the two of you useless. You want to be guilty, you want to be pissed, wait till you nail him. Clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Satisfied, he leaned back again. “You walk out of here, the media’s going to be all over you like lice.”
“I can handle the media.”
“I’m sure you can.” He blew out a breath. “So can I. I’ve got a fucking press conference. Clear out.”
There was only one place to go, and that was back to the beginning. Eve stood on the sidewalk outside the Five Moons and stared down. Playing the route back in her mind, she strode to the subway entrance.
It was raining, she remembered. I’d have a hand on my umbrella, my purse over my shoulder with a good grip on that, too. Bad neighborhood. I’m pissed. I walk fast, but I keep an eye shifting for anybody who wants my purse as much as I do.
She walked into the Five Moons, ignoring the quick glances and the bland face of the droid behind the bar as she tried to read Cicely Towers’s thoughts.
Disgusting place. Dirty. I’m not going to drink, not even going to sit down. God knows what I’d pick up on my suit. Check the watch. Where the hell is he? Let’s get this over with. Why the hell did I meet him here? Stupid, stupid. Should have used my office, my turf.
Why didn’t I?
Because it’s private, Eve thought, closing her eyes. It’s personal. Too many people there, too many questions. Not city business. Her business.
Why not her apartment?
Didn’t want him there. Too angry—upset—eager—to argue when he named the time and place.
No, it’s just angry, impatient, Eve decided, remembering the droid’s statement. She’d checked her watch again and again, she’d frowned, she’d given up, and walked out.
Eve followed the route, remembering the umbrella, the purse. Quick steps, heels clicking. Someone there. She stops. Does she see him, recognize him? Has to, it’s face to face. Maybe she speaks to him: “You’re late.”
He does it quick. It’s a bad neighborhood. Not much cruising traffic, but you can never tell. Security lights are dinky, always are around here. Nobody complains much because it’s safer to score in the dark.
But someone might come out of the bar, or the club across the street. One swipe and she’s down. Her blood’s all over him. The fucking blood’s got to be all over him.
He takes her umbrella. An impulse, or maybe for a shield. Walks away, fast. Not to the subway. He’s covered with blood. Even around here, somebody would notice.
She covered two blocks in either direction, then covered them again, questioning anyone who was loitering on the street. Most of the responses were shrugs, angry eyes. Cops weren’t popular on the West End.
She watched a street hawker, who she suspected was pushing more than fashion beads and feathers, skim around the corner on motor skates. She scowled after him.
“You been round here before.”
Eve glanced over. The woman was so white she was next to invisible. Her face was like bleached putty, her hair cropped so close it showed her bone-white scalp, and her eyes were colorless down to the pinprick pupil.
Funky junkie, Eve thought. They popped the white tablet that kept the mind misted and pigments bleached.
“Yeah, I’ve been around.”
“Cop.” The junkie jerked forward, stiff jointed, like a droid coming up on maintenance. A sign she was low on a fix. “Seen you talking with Crack a while ago. He’s some dude.”
“Yeah, he’s some dude. Were you around the night that woman got whacked down the street?