The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [139]
Nothing wrong with Trueheart, though, he had to admit it as he tracked his gaze across the room and saw his boy sipping a soda water and chatting up some fresh-faced young thing.
Kid was bright as a polished star, eager as a puppy, and would work until he dropped. He’d never figured on taking on the responsibility of trainer, but by damn, he was enjoying it.
Made him feel good the way the kid looked to him for advice, listened to his stories, believed his bullshit.
Oh yeah, he was turning into his old man right in front of his own eyes.
Time to clock out and go home.
He paid his tab, noting the change of shift at the bar. He wasn’t the only one calling it a night.
Casually, he made a circle, around the tables, scanning faces one last time, watching the data hounds, eyeballing the staff. He waited until Trueheart shifted his gaze, then Baxter tapped his wrist unit in the signal they were packing it in.
Trueheart nodded, turned his glass on the bar to indicate he’d just finish up, then head on home himself.
Working well together, Baxter decided as he walked out into the heavy air. Kid’s coming along fine. He glanced up once at the storm-tossed sky, and hoped to hell he made it home before it broke.
He was in his car, and ten full blocks uptown, when his communicator signalled.
“Ah, shit, Dallas. Can’t a guy go home once in a damn while?” Grumbling to himself, he pulled out his communicator. “Baxter. What the hell do you want now?”
“Suspect’s ID’d. Gerald Stevenson is Steve Audrey, your friendly, fucking bartender.”
He shot a look at his rearview, his sideview mirrors, then cut across a lane of traffic before he was pinned in by a maxibus and a streamline of Rapid Cabs. “I’m ten blocks away, heading north. I’ll double back. Suspect clocked off shift at twenty-one hundred. Trueheart’s still in there.”
“Contacting him now. Keep your communicator open and active. Get back there, Baxter. I don’t want the kid handling this alone. I’m already on my way.”
Baxter tried to squeeze between cabs, listening as Eve called for Trueheart.
He’d finished his drink, and was feeling a little flattered, a little nervous as the girl who’d come over to talk to him had asked for his number.
She’d wanted to dance, too, but he was a terrible dancer. And he really had to get home, get a good night’s sleep. You never knew when the case was going to break.
He knew he was blushing when he gave the girl, Marley, his private ’link number. He hated that color so easily washed into his face, and prayed he’d grow out of it. Soon.
Cops didn’t blush. Dallas sure as hell didn’t. Baxter didn’t.
Maybe there was some sort of medical treatment to prevent it.
Amused at himself, he walked out of the club. Storm’s coming up, he thought, and found himself pleased. He loved a good booming storm. He debated whether to jump into the subway, head straight home underground, or walk a few blocks while the air turned electric.
He wondered if—after the case was closed and he could tell Marley he was a cop—she would want to go out with him.
Just pizza and a vid, maybe. Something really casual. You just couldn’t get to know somebody very well in a club when the music was loud and everybody was talking at once.
He watched a snake of lightning uncoil overhead, and decided the subway was best. If he got home quick enough, he could watch the storm from his window. He started to walk south, still looking up at the sky.
His communicator beeped. He pulled it out, engaged.
“Hey! It’s gonna rain in a minute. Need a lift?”
Trueheart looked over, felt the blush work up his throat again at being caught staring up at the sky like some kid in a planetarium. Automatically he palmed the unit, switched it to hold so it went silent and didn’t blow his cover.
“Just about to catch the subway.” He gave the man he knew as Steve