The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [436]
“And you know this because?”
“I’ve looked into acquiring it,” he said easily. “So we could fly down, get there in under an hour, check it out, enjoy the sun and surf and drink some foolish cocktails. End the day with a walk along the beach in the moonlight.”
She found herself smiling. “How small a villa?”
“Small enough to serve as a nice impulse holiday spot for us, and roomy enough to allow us to travel down with a few friends if we’ve a mind to.”
“You’d already had this thought.”
“I had, yes, and put it in the if-and-when department. If you’d like it, we can make this the when.”
“I can be dressed and toss whatever I’d need for the day in a bag in under ten minutes.”
She leaped up, bolted toward her dresser.
“Bag’s packed,” he told her. “For both of us. In case.”
She glanced back at him. “You never miss a trick.”
“It’s rare to have a Sunday off with my wife. I like making the most of it.”
She tossed the robe to pull on a simple white tank, then grabbed out a pair of khaki shorts. “We’ve had a good start on making the most. This should cap it off.”
Even as she stepped into the shorts, the communicator on her dresser signaled. “Crap. Damn it. Shit!” Her stomach dropped as she read the display. Her glance at Roarke was full of regret and apology. “It’s Whitney.”
He watched the cop take over, face, posture, as she picked up the communicator to respond to her commander. And he thought, Ah well.
“Yes, sir.”
“Lieutenant, I’m sorry to interrupt your holiday.” Whitney’s wide face filled the tiny screen, and on it rode a stress that had the muscles tightening at the back of her neck.
“It’s no problem, Commander.”
“I realize you’re off the roll, but there’s a situation. I need you to report to Five-forty-one Central Park South. I’m on scene now.”
“You’re on scene, sir?” Bad, she thought, big and bad for the commander to be on scene.
“Affirmative. The victim is Deena MacMasters, age sixteen. Her body was discovered earlier this morning by her parents when they returned home from a weekend away. Dallas, the victim’s father is Captain Jonah MacMasters.”
It took her a moment. “Illegals. I know of Lieutenant MacMasters. He’s been promoted?”
“Two weeks ago. MacMasters has specifically requested you as primary. I would like to grant that request.”
“I’ll contact Detective Peabody immediately.”
“I’ll take care of that. I’d like you here asap.”
“Then I’m on my way.”
“Thank you.”
She disengaged the communicator, turned to Roarke. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t.” He crossed to her, tapped his fingertip on the shallow dent in her chin. “A man’s lost his child, and that’s a great deal more important than a bit of beach. You know him?”
“Not really. He contacted me after I took Casto down.” She thought of the wrong cop who’d gone after her at her wedding eve party. “MacMasters wasn’t his LT, but he wanted to give me a nod for closing that case, and taking down a bad cop. I appreciated it. He’s got a rep,” she continued as she changed the holiday shorts for work trousers. “A good, solid rep. I hadn’t heard about his promotion, but I’m not surprised by it.”
She tidied her choppy cap of hair by raking her fingers through it. “He’s got about twenty years on the job. Maybe twenty-five. I hear he draws a hard line and sticks to it, makes sure those serving under him do the same. He closes cases.”
“Sounds like someone else I know.”
She pulled a shirt out of the closet. “Maybe.”
“Whitney didn’t tell you how the girl was killed.”
“He wants and needs me to come in without any preconceptions. He didn’t say it was homicide. That’s for me and the ME to determine.”
She picked up her weapon harness, strapped it on. Pocketed her communicator, her ’link, hooked on her restraints. She didn’t bother to frown when Roarke offered her the summer-weight jacket he’d selected out of her closet to go over her sidearm. “Whitney’s being there means one of two things,” she told him. “It’s hinky, or they’re personal friends. Maybe both.”
“For him to be on scene . . .”
“Yeah.