The Other Side - J. D. Robb [2]
She called the elevator and considered it a small, personal victory when the doors shut her in. “Master bedroom,” she ordered, then just leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, while the unit navigated its way.
When she stepped into the bedroom, she raked a hand through her messy cap of brown hair, stripped the jacket off her lanky frame, and tossed it at the handiest chair. She stepped onto the platform and sat on the side of the lake-sized bed. If she’d believed she could escape into sleep, she’d have stretched out, but there was too much in her head, in her belly, for rest.
So she simply sat, veteran cop, Homicide lieutenant who’d walked through blood and death more times than she could count, and mourned a little.
Roarke found her there.
He could gauge her state of mind by the slump of her shoulders, by the way she sat, staring out the window. He walked to her, sat beside her, took her hand.
“I should’ve gone with you.”
She shook her head but leaned against him. “No place for civilians in Interview, and nothing you could’ve done anyway if I’d stretched it and brought you in as expert consultant. I had him cold and cut through his battalion of expensive lawyers like a fucking machete. I thought the PA was going to kiss me on the mouth.”
He brought the hand he held to his lips. “And still you’re sad.”
She closed her eyes, comforted a little by the solidity of him beside her, by that whisper of Ireland in his voice, even by the scent so uniquely him. “Not sad, or . . . I don’t know what the hell I am. I should be buzzed. I did the job; I slammed it shut—and I got to look them both in the face and let them know it.”
She shoved up, paced to the window, away again, and realized it wasn’t peace and comfort she wanted after all. Not quite yet. It was a place to let it go, let it out, spew the rage.
“He was pissed. Moriarity. Lying there with that hole in his chest his pal put into him with his freaking antique Italian foil.”
“The one meant for you,” Roarke reminded her.
“Yeah. And he’s pissed, seriously pissed, Dudley missed and it wasn’t me on a slab at the morgue.”
“I expect he was,” Roarke said coolly. “But that’s not what’s got you going.”
She paused a minute, just looked at him. Stunning blue eyes in a stunning face, the mane of thick black hair, that poet’s mouth set firm now because she’d made him think of her on that slab at the morgue.
“You know they never had a chance to take me. You were there.”
“And still he drew blood, didn’t he?” Roarke nodded at the healing wound on her arm.
She tapped it. “And this helped sew them up. Attempted murder of a police officer just trowels on the icing. They didn’t make their next score. Now they have to end their competition with a tie, which oddly enough is what I think they always wanted. They just planned for the contest to go on a lot longer. And you know what the prize was at the end? Do you know what the purse for this goddamn tournament was?”
“I don’t, no, but I see you got it out of Moriarity today.”
“Yeah, I wound him up so tight he had to let it spring out. A dollar. A fucking dollar, Roarke—just one big joke between them. And it makes me sick.”
It shocked, even appalled her a little, that her eyes stung, that she felt tears pressing hard. “It makes me sick,” she repeated. “All those people dead, all those lives broken and shattered, and this makes me sick? I don’t know why, I just don’t know why it churns my stomach. I’ve seen worse. God, we’ve both seen worse.”
“But rarely more futile.” He stood, took her arms, gently rubbing. “No reason, no mad vendetta or fevered dream, no vengeance or greed or fury. Just a cruel game. Why shouldn’t it make you sick? It does me as well.”
“I contacted the next of kin,” she began. “Even the ones we found from before they started this matchup in New York. That’s why I’m late getting back. I thought I needed to, and thought if I closed it all the way, I’d feel better. I got gratitude. I got anger and tears, everything you expect. And every one of them asked