The In Death Collection Books 21-25 - J. D. Robb [629]
She caught his eye, and hers was distinctly hairy. He only shook his head.
“No lip,” he said.
She pushed her way through the schoolyard rush to his station. “A word.”
She moved out of the room, and when he joined her the din from the war room was a clear indicator no one else objected to the possibility of corned beef on rye.
“Listen, I went along with the pizza parlor, but—”
“I have to do something,” he interrupted. “It’s little enough, but at least it’s something. It’s positive. It’s tangible.”
“Cops can spring for their own eats, and if I clear an order in, I’ve got a budget. There are procedures.”
He turned away from her, turned back again with frustration simply rolling off of him. “Christ Jesus, we’re buried in shagging procedures already. Why would you possibly care if I buy some fucking sandwiches?”
She stopped herself when she felt the teeth of her own temper in her throat. “Because it’s tangible.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes, rubbed hard. “It’s something to kick at.”
“Can’t you take an hour? Look at me. Look at me,” he repeated, laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re exhausted. You need an hour to stretch out, to turn off.”
“Not going to happen, and by the way, you’re not looking so perky yourself.”
“I feel like my brain’s been used as a punching bag. It’s not the time, or even the lack of sleep so much. It’s the unholy tedium.”
That made her frown—and put her back up again, a little. “You’ve done cop work before.”
“Bits and pieces it comes clear to me now, and that with some challenge and a clear end goal.”
“Challenge? Like risking your life and getting bloody.”
Calmer, he circled his head on his neck and wondered how many years it might take to get the last of the kinks out. “A lot more appealing, sad to say, than sitting in front of a screen or on a ’link for hours on end.”
“Yeah. I know just what you mean. But this is part of it, a big part of it. It’s not all land to air chases and busting in doors. Listen, you can take an hour in the crib. Probably should. I’ll clear it.”
He flicked a finger along the dent in her chin. “Not only does that sound extremely unappealing, but if you’re on, I’m on. That’s the new rule until we’ve finished this.”
Arguing took energy she didn’t have to spare. “Okay. All right.”
“Something else is wrong.” He put a hand under her chin, left it there even when she winced and tried to knock it off. “Shows what happens when your brain’s used as a punching bag that I didn’t see it before. What is it?”
“I figure having some murdering bastard who slipped by us before back torturing and killing women under our noses is pretty much enough.”
“No, something else in there.” It was the “slipped by us” that clicked for him. “Where’s Feeney?”
For an answer, she shifted, and kicked the vending machine so viciously it sent off its security alarm.
Warning! Warning! Vandalizing or damaging this unit is a crime, and punishable by a maximum of thirty days incarceration and a fine not to exceed one thousand dollars per offense. Warning! Warning!
“All right, then,” Roarke said mildly, and taking her arm, pulled her down the corridor. “Let’s just take this to your office before we’re both arrested for attempting to steal fizzies.”
“I don’t have time to—”
“I think making time is in everyone’s best interest.”
He took her straight through, so the scatter of cops on weekend evening shift barely glanced over.
Inside her office, he closed the door, leaned back against it while she kicked her desk. “When you’re done abusing inanimate objects, tell me what happened.”
“I screwed up, that’s what happened. Fuck, fuck, and shit. I messed up.”
“How?”
“What would it have taken me? Ten minutes? Five? Five minutes to give him the rundown before the briefing. But I didn’t think of it, never crossed my mind.” Obviously at wit’s end, she fisted her hands on either side of her head and squeezed in. “What the hell’s wrong with me that it never crossed my mind?”
“Once more,” Roarke suggested, “with clarity.”
“Feeney, I didn’t feed him the new data, tell