The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [130]
She caught herself before Eve could reply, cleared her throat. “McNab and I completed our run-through, sir, and all security—audio, visual, and scans—are operational.”
“Your uniform jacket is improperly secured, Officer Peabody.”
“My . . .” She looked down, turned bright pink to the roots of her bowl-cut hair, and hastily began to secure the brass buttons McNab had so hastily undone.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Peabody, are you a damn rabbit? Go fix yourself up somewhere and put your hormones on hold for awhile.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.”
Peabody slunk away and left Eve scowling at Roarke. “Don’t think I don’t know what a big, fat kick you’re getting out of this. I told you this thing with McNab was going to screw up my aide.”
“As a recent liaison to the NYPSD, I found the conduct disgraceful.” He turned back, leading with the grin that made his face impossibly young, ridiculously beautiful. “Absolutely disgraceful. I think we should go do a run-through of the lounges personally. Right now.”
“Pervert.” She jammed her hands in her pockets and was about to walk away from him and up to Control when the main door opened. Rue MacLean stepped in.
She hesitated when Eve’s cold stare blasted her, then straightened her shoulders and crossed the room. They met in front of the bar where Kohli had served his last drink.
“Ms. MacLean.”
“Lieutenant. I’m perfectly aware of what you think of me, and you’re entitled to say it to my face.”
“Why waste my breath? I walked through a cop’s blood on this floor. That says enough.”
“Eve.” Roarke touched her shoulder. He turned to Rue. “You’ve seen Ricker?”
“Yes. He’s—”
“Not here.” He gestured to the side wall. The control panel, as the elevator it operated, was hidden in the mural depicting the fall of Adam. The door slid open to a small private car. They rode silently to the owner’s office.
Roarke moved to a friggie behind a smoked mirror, took out chilled bottles of spring water, poured. “Why don’t you sit down, Rue? Conversations with Ricker have a tendency to shake the spirit.”
“Yes, thanks.”
“Aren’t we polite?” Furious, Eve gestured away Roarke’s offer of water. “Aren’t we just delightful and civilized. You want to trust her, pal, that’s your privilege. Don’t expect the same consideration from me. She set you up.”
“That’s right.” Roarke put the glass in Rue’s unsteady hand. “And now she’s returning the favor. And not without risk.”
Roarke took Rue’s hand, and though she tried to jerk free, he calmly unbuttoned her cuff and rolled the sleeve up on the arm he’d noticed her favoring.
Dark, ugly bruises ran from wrist to elbow.
“He hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“He likes hurting people. Bruises fade. I’m sure your wife will agree, I deserve a great deal worse.”
“He has fingers like spikes,” was all Eve said, but she felt herself shift inside. “Why did he use them on you?”
“Because he could, for the most part. If he hadn’t believed me, I’d have gotten that and worse. Passing on the information from you put him in a good mood.”
She took a drink, set the glass aside. “It ran almost exactly as you thought it would. I went to him, asked for money for information. That pissed him off, so I let him push me around a little until I gave it for free. That also cheered him up.”
Absently, she rebuttoned her cuff. “I told him you were distracted, bad-tempered, how you were cracking the whip to get the place open because it was costing you money to keep the doors closed. That, and your feathers were ruffled because the cops were breathing down your neck. I topped it off by saying I overheard you arguing with your wife.”
“Good.” Roarke sat on the arm of a chair.
“You were going around about the investigation, how it was looking for you, and more, about the position she was putting herself in. You’re frantic about that, and pushing her to resign from the force. You two had a real blowup about that.
“I told him there were some hard words about being on opposite sides of the line, and you just lost it.