The In Death Collection Books 6-10 - J. D. Robb [84]
“That would be Davis,” Roarke told her, after he’d disguised a chuckle with a cough. “Or Joan Crawford.”
“Whatever. You look sort of glam, Dallas.”
Mortified, Eve straightened up. “I don’t believe I asked for a report on my appearance, Officer Peabody.”
“She’s still a little testy,” Roarke commented. “Would you like some coffee, Peabody, a bit of breakfast?”
“I had some . . .” Her eyes brightened. “Are those raspberries? Wow.”
“They’re fresh. I have an agri-dome nearby. Make yourself comfortable.”
“When you two finish socializing, maybe we could take a moment to discuss . . . oh, I don’t know, how about car bombs?”
“I have the reports.” Drawn by the raspberries, Peabody sat on the side of the bed. She balanced her shiny black shoe on the knee of her starched uniform pants. “The sweepers and bomb team put it together pretty fast. Thanks, this is great,” she added when Roarke supplied her with a tray of her own. “We used to grow raspberries when I was a kid.” She sampled one and sighed. “Takes me back.”
“Try to stay in this decade, Peabody.”
“Yes, sir. I—” She glanced over at the three quick raps on the door. “Must be McNab.”
McNab poked his head around the door. “All clear. Hey, some bedroom. Outstanding. Is that coffee I smell? Hey, Lieutenant, looking decent. What kind of berries are those?”
He crossed the room as he spoke, the cat jogging in behind him. When both of them made themselves cozy on the bed, Eve simply gaped.
“Make yourself right at home, McNab.”
“Thanks.” He helped himself to her bowl of berries. “You look steady, Lieutenant. Glad to see it.”
“If someone doesn’t give me a goddamn report, I’m going to look a lot more than steady. You,” she decided, pointing at Peabody. “Because normally you’re not an idiot.”
“Yes, sir. The explosive device was a homemade boomer, and whoever put it together knew their stuff. It had a short range, classic for car explosives, which is why it took out your vehicle, but had—relatively speaking—little effect on the surrounding area. If you hadn’t been in a jam, cars locked in on all sides, there would have been basically no outside damage to speak of.”
“Were there any fatalities?”
“No, sir. The vehicles on your perimeters were affected, and there were about twenty injuries—only three were serious. The rest were treated and released. You sustained serious injuries as you were outside of the vehicle and unprotected at the time of the explosion.”
Eve remembered the two teenagers who’d boarded by only moments before. If they’d still been in range . . . She ordered herself to shake that image away. “Was it on a timer? How was it cued?”
“I’ll take that.” McNab gave Galahad an absent stroke on the back as the cat curled next to Eve’s legs. “He went for the standard car boom style—which was his mistake. If he’d used a timer, well, let’s just say you wouldn’t be eating berries this morning, Lieutenant. He linked it to the ignition, figuring it would trigger when you engaged the engine. Fortunately for our side, you drive—or drove—a departmental joke. The electrical system, the guidance system, the ignition system, well, just about every damn system in your vehicle was flawed. My guess is when you started it up yesterday, it hiccuped a few times.”
“It took me three tries to get it going.”
“There you are.” McNab gestured with a berry, then popped it in his mouth. “It threw the link with the boomer off, skipped over the trigger. It was primed, could have gone off at any time from there. You hit a pothole, stop short, and boom.”
“I slammed the door,” Eve murmured. “When those idiot cab drivers pissed me off, I got out and slammed the door.”
“That’s likely what did it. Nothing wrong with the boomer. I took a look at the debris myself, and I can tell you he used top-grade components. It was just waiting for the signal to trigger.”
Eve drew a breath. “So what you’re telling me is I owe my life to budget cuts and a departmental maintenance crew who have their heads up their butts.