The Other Side - J. D. Robb [18]
“Good thinking. Send me whatever you get.”
She needed thinking time, Eve told herself as they split up. A stop at the morgue to confirm TOD—which was just stupid, since she’d been right there at TOD—to see if Morris or the lab had been able to get a handle on the type of blade used, if the sweepers had found any trace evidence.
Deal with the facts first, she thought as she got in her vehicle—then move on to theory. But she sat a moment, suddenly tired, suddenly angry. It felt as if something pushed inside her brain, trying to shove her thoughts into tangents.
Not enough downtime, she decided. No time to take some good, deep breaths between cases. So she took them now, just closing her eyes for a moment, ordering her mind and body to clear.
Alive. Trapped. Help.
Keep your promise!
The voice was so clear in her head she jerked up, had a hand on her weapon as she swiveled to check the seat beside her, behind her. Her heart pounded painfully against her ribs, in her throat, in her ears as she lowered her unsteady hand.
“Stop. Just stop,” she ordered herself. “Do what you have to do, then get some sleep.” She pulled away from the curb, but gave in to need and called home.
And her heart slowed, settled a little when Roarke’s face flowed on-screen.
“Lieutenant, I was hoping I’d—What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing except having some old Hungarian woman bleed out under my hands. Tired,” she admitted. “I’ve got to head down to the morgue because there was a glitch with the TOD. I need to get it straightened out, then talk to a bunch of cops about a Russian ballet guy. Sorry,” she added. “This one literally fell in my lap.”
“I’ll meet you at the morgue.”
“Why?”
“Where else does a man meet his wife—when they’re you and me?” She looked pale, he thought, her eyes too dark against her skin.
“Yeah, okay. I’ll see you there.”
When she broke transmission, Roarke stared at the blank screen of his ’link. Not even a token protest? More than tired, he thought.
His lieutenant was not herself.
She got lost. She would have deemed it impossible, but she couldn’t find her way. The streets seemed too crowded, too confusing, and the blare of horns when she hesitated at a light had her jumping in her seat. Frustration turned to sweaty fear that ran a snaking line down the center of her back. Battling it back, she ordered the dash navigator to plot her route, then gave in and put her vehicle on auto.
Tired, she assured herself and closed her eyes. Just tired. But there was a lingering unease that she was ill—or worse.
Need a boost, she thought, nearly shuddering with relief as she arrived at the morgue. She’d grab a tube of Pepsi at Vending, down some caffeine. Maybe even choke down a PowerBar because, Jesus, she was starving.
What was wrong with the air in here? she wondered as she started down the white tunnel. The lights glaring off the tiles slapped into her eyes and made them ache. It was frigid, an icy blast after the heat of the summer night. Yet under her chilled skin her blood beat hot, like a fever raging.
She headed for Vending, digging into her pockets, her mind on food and caffeine. A woman sat on the floor beside the machines, her face in her hands, weeping.
“I’m scared. I’m scared,” she repeated. “Nobody sees me now.”
“What’s the problem?” As Eve crouched down, the woman dropped her hands. Her face, livid with bruising, shone with shock and what might have been hope.
“You can see me?”
“Of course I can see you. You need medical attention. Take it easy. I’m going to get someone, then—”
“It’s too late.” Tears ran down the swollen face as the woman dipped her head again. “Look what he did to me.”
Eve froze as she stared at the gaping wound on the back of the woman’s head, at the dried blood matting the hair, soaking the blouse.
“Hold on. Just—” Eve reached out, and her hand passed through the woman’s arm. “Jesus God.”
“It was Rennie.” Sniffling, she pushed the heels of her hands through the tears.
“What are