21

 

 

The media circus could have been worse. She’d had worse. Since Kyung, the media liaison—who wasn’t an asshole—told her to use her own words and judgment, she gave what she felt was a straightforward statement.

“Through the efforts of the NYPSD, its officers and technicians, two individuals have been identified, apprehended, and charged with the twenty-five murders and numerous injuries incurred as a result of the attacks at Wollman Rink, Times Square, and Madison Square Garden. Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, have confessed to these crimes, and as the investigation also uncovered their plans to target others, confessed to same.”

Of course that wasn’t enough—it never seemed to be enough.

She answered questions, some salient, some stupendously stupid. She answered those that targeted Willow’s age.

“Yes, Willow Mackie is fifteen. At fifteen she killed twenty-five people in cold blood. The investigation uncovered her plan to kill more, including her own mother and her seven-year-old half brother. Due to the nature of her crimes, she will be tried as an adult.”

When pressed, she gave a bare-bones summary of Willow’s arrest, then had to pull back a flash of temper when one of the reporters shouted out:

“My information is Willow Mackie was injured during her arrest.

Was this retaliation for allegedly killing a cop?”

“Have you ever had a flash grenade tossed in your general direction? No? Ever had somebody in full body armor firing a laser rifle, a handheld, a blaster at you? Missed those, too? Every member of the team involved in apprehending the individual charged with

twenty-five murders, including Officer Kevin Russo, put their lives at risk to protect and serve. Every member of the team acted and reacted in a lawful and appropriate matter to the threat, as the record of the arrest will show. Now if you—”

“Follow-up!” Nadine called out, interrupting what would likely have been an unwise assessment of the previous reporter’s intelligence. “Lieutenant Dallas, did you incur your very visible injuries during the arrest of Willow Mackie?”

“She objected, violently, to being arrested.”

“Would that include what appears to be a severe gash on your hand? Did she also have a knife?”

“Yes, and yes. I guess I forgot to ask if any of you have ever had someone try to slit your throat with a combat knife. She missed. If any of you want to play up the angle of her age, like we should sympathize, just make sure you include the names of the twenty-five. Ellissa Wyman, Brent Michaelson . . .” she began, and named every one.

“That’s all you get.”

“One moment, Lieutenant.” Tibble stepped forward, gave the entire room the hard eye until everyone settled. “I have personally reviewed recordings taken from Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, Lieutenant Lowenbaum, and others during the confrontation and arrest of Willow Mackie. Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody, and a civilian consultant all received direct strikes deployed by Willow Mackie, and were spared serious injury only due to their body armor.”

He allowed just a hint of temper to show as he turned the hard eye on the original questioner.

“Age doesn’t matter a whole hell of a lot, in my opinion, when you’re armed with laser rifles, flash grenades, and you know how to use them. More, if you use them to strike at civilians, at police officers, and rack up kills like trophies. Lieutenant Dallas and her team risked their lives today, as they do every day, to save yours, to save your spouses, your sons and daughters, your friends and neighbors. If anyone wishes to question the necessary actions of the courageous men and women who risked all to stop that unconscionable number at twenty-five, talk to me.

“Lieutenant Dallas, you’re dismissed, with gratitude.” “Sir.”

She got out, got the hell out, pitifully grateful Roarke was right there waiting for her.

In the car, she put her head back, closed her eyes. “There’ll be others who’ll pull that.”

“If you mean using her age to pump up a story, or the fact that she got a few bumps during the arrest, yes, I expect so. Just as I know they’ll be drowned out. Put it away, darling.”

“Tibble was pissed. You don’t see that every day.”

“The fact he was, and let it show, has impact. You knew all twenty- five names.”

“Some things stick with you.”

He let her rest, hoped she slept, but she shifted, sat up as he drove through the gates.

“You’re going to want me to eat, but I feel a little off. I don’t know if I can deal with food.”

“Maybe a little soup. It’ll help you sleep.” Maybe, she thought, but . . . “Don’t tranq it.” “I won’t.”

She leaned on him as they walked to the front door, leaned as exhaustion crept back inch by inch. Because it’s done, she told herself. Because it’s over.

Summerset and Galahad stood in the foyer, as they might after any workday. But it wasn’t any day. She could have pulled out an insult, to make it more ordinary, but Summerset had wrestled with his own trauma.

She didn’t have it in her. Apparently, neither did he.

He scanned her face, the bruises, but didn’t smirk or comment. “Will you let me tend to your injuries, Lieutenant?”

“I just want to sleep.”

He nodded, looked at Roarke. “Are you hurt?” “No. You look better.”

“I’m fine. We’ve had quiet times, the cat and I. Now you’ll have your own. There’s chicken soup, with noodles. I thought soothing would be best after this day.”

“Thanks for that.” Roarke wrapped an arm around Eve’s waist, turned her toward the stairs.

“Lieutenant?”

She glanced back, so tired now she nearly floated. “Evil doesn’t have an age.”

“No. No, it really doesn’t.”

She thought briefly of her home office, of checking on the paperwork, but couldn’t do it. Not now, not yet.

“Just an hour down,” she told Roarke as they turned into the bedroom. “Then I’ll think about food and the rest. Just an hour down first.”

“I could use that myself.”

The cat leaped on the bed as they undressed, bumped his head against her side as she crawled into bed. She gave him a couple of strokes, found it comforting. More comforting yet when he curled his tubby body into the small of her back.

And perfect, finally perfect, when Roarke slid in beside her, drew her close.

She ached, everywhere, from the bruises, from fatigue, from the headache drumming behind her eyes.

But held between two loves, she slept.

And slept straight through until the first narrow break of dawn.

Disoriented, she stared over to where Roarke sat—not in business mode, but elegantly casual, working by the light of his PPC.

The cat had taken over Roarke’s spot on the bed, stretched out luxuriously.

Eve started to speak, found her throat bitterly dry. “What?” she managed. “What time?”

“Early.” Roarke set aside his PPC, rose. “Lights on ten percent. That eye’s more colorful, but we’ll work on it now. Let’s have a look at the rest.”

He whipped the covers off. “Hey!”

“As I suspected. You’ve quite an assortment. We’ll wand you, and try the jet tub.”

“Coffee. Just coffee.”

“Not just, but that as well. Maybe some scrambled eggs and toast to start, see how that settles.”

“I’m not sick.” She sat up, winced. “Maybe sore.”

“So the wand, the jets, the food. Otherwise I’ll devil you into taking a blocker, and we’d both rather I didn’t have to.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Besides, the healing wand eased some of the soreness, and the tub—along with whatever he put in the water—helped more.

And the coffee helped everything.

She ate the eggs, which settled fine. In fact they woke up her appetite. “Now I’m starving.”

He turned to her, caught her face in his hand, kissed her. Long, soft, deep.

“Well, that’s not what I was hungry for. But now that you mention it, I think I’m up to it.”

“We’ll give those bruises a little longer to heal.” But he kept her face framed in his hands, kissed her again. “I’m just glad to see you.”

“Where did I go?”

“Darling Eve, you had grief behind your eyes. So much grief and fatigue. It’s gone now.”

“I just needed sleep. And you. And the cat.” She let out a long breath. “And this.”

Now he pressed his lips to her forehead. “There’s one more thing you might want. Come with me.”

“I was thinking I want pancakes.”

“We can get to that.” He pulled her to the elevator and in.

Programmed the destination manually.

“A swim would be good,” she considered. “Might help work out the stiffness.”

When the doors opened she was, for the second time that morning, disoriented. “How many rooms do you . . .”

She trailed off as her gaze arrowed in on the wide U, studded with controls, the sleek leather chair in its curve.

“Command center. Holy shit, holy shit!”

It was, sort of, like walking into the design he’d shown her only days before. The walls painted that quiet, easy color that wasn’t

exactly green, wasn’t exactly gray. And the absolute magnificence of her new workstation, an entire wall of screens.

“Did I sleep for a week?”

“You’ve been out of the office, so to speak, for a few days. And the crew took advantage. Double shifts. There are still some details, some work, but it’s up and running.”

“That?” She pointed at the big, wide U of deep—maybe commanding—brown with its flecks and veins of dark green and that not-quite-green base for an array of controls. “That’s up and running?”

“I figured that would be your priority. Test it out.”

She beelined for it, absolutely delighting him. Ran a hand over the stone, studied the controls. “How do I . . .” She laid her hand on a palm screen.

It hummed, but did nothing.

“You haven’t told it what to do, have you?” Amused, Roarke joined her.

“Like . . . Open operations?”

The command center came to life, controls flashing on, glinting like jewels—the sort of jewels she appreciated most.

Operations open, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. “Holy shit,” she said again. “Just like that.”

“I had a bit of time this morning. It’ll take a bit more to transfer everything to your comfort zone, but yes, just like that.”

“Okay, open file, Mackie, Willow.”

Accessing. Where would you like the data displayed? “Wall screen.”

As she hadn’t designated one section, the entire wall filled with data.

“Wow. Ah, display final report by Peabody, Detective Delia. She finished it,” Eve noted when it flashed on. “She wrote it up, filed it. Done.”

Roarke kissed the top of her head. “Done.”

“Wait.” She dropped into the chair, a chair of rich forest-green leather, said, “Ahh.” Swiveled. “Oh, this is it. Seriously it. The redhead with the tits and the boots knows her stuff. I could play with this all day. I’ll need to play with this all day to get up to speed. What else can it—”

“Everything you need. But you might want to take a glance, at least, at the rest.”

She swiveled again, surveyed the room.

The seating area worried her a little. It looked entirely too comfortable with its long, low sofa in forest-shadows green. But not fancy or frilly, even with a couple of pillows tossed on it. A new sleep chair, which Galahad had claimed already.

She rose, wandered, found her board—she only had to roll it out of the slot in the wall.

A kitchen area, updated big-time—shiny, yes, but simple.

And simple again, an arrangement of floating shelves—probably real wood, she mused—holding some of her useless but prized things.

The stuffed Galahad Roarke had given her, the statue of the goddess was a gift from Peabody’s mother, a sheriff’s badge, a fancy magnifying glass, a photograph of her and Roarke taken when they’d been banged up some after an arrest, and smiling at each other.

He’d added art—or the designer had—which hadn’t been run by her. But . . . how could she argue with the framed cityscapes? Her city.

Their city.

She frowned at the thick green plastic boards over what was obviously a wide hole in the side of the room. “What happened there?”

“It’s more what’s happening. As I said, there are details yet. This is something extra. When it’s done, the dining area goes in front of what will be glass. You open the glass and you’ll be able to step out onto a small terrace. I thought you’d enjoy that. We’d enjoy eating here with the glass open in fine weather.”

We, she thought. He’d designed the old office for her. This one was for them.

“You were right, and not just because it looks really good. You were right because it’s my space, sure, but it’s for both of us. You were right, it was time.”

“Remember you said that when we start on the bedroom.”

“Not going to think about that. This is much too frosty. Now I need to start playing with my command center.”

“I’ll give you some pointers, then leave you to it for a couple hours. That’s about what we have before we need to leave for Bella’s party.”

“The what?” Already halfway across the room, she stopped, turned on her heel. “Oh, but . . . Look, don’t you think we could skip that? I mean, bruised up, tired out, saved New York? She’s not going to notice or care if we’re around. She’s one.”

“I know as little as you about the mind of a one-year-old. But I know Mavis.”

“Crap, crap, crap. We have to go.” Shoving at her hair, Eve sent the command center a look of longing. “Okay. So we go for, say, an hour, ninety minutes tops, then we come back. Take that swim. We can have pool sex.”

“That sounds like a bribe.” Considering, amusement clear, he nodded. “I’m very susceptible to the right kind of bribe. I believe we have a deal.”

“Solid.” She headed straight back to command.

S

—

he got her two hours, found it exhilarating and amazing. The comp was so quick, it all but anticipated her commands, the

screen images so clear she almost felt she could walk into them.

The holo functions would take her a while to get a steady handle on, but even now she could see using them to put herself back into a crime scene, or bring a wit, a consultant, a potential suspect right into her space.

In all her wildest dreams, she could never have imagined having so much tech right at her fingertips. Even though it meant actually dealing with tech.

But the best, the abso-ult, as Mavis would say, was discovering the mini unit that allowed her to program coffee right at her command center.

That little bonus had her doing a mental happy dance even as they left for Bella’s party.

“It’s going to be really exceptional pool sex.” Roarke slid behind the wheel. “Is it now?”

She yanked him to her, gave him a hard kiss. “Better stick to the shallow end, because we could drown. And even then.”

“Life’s full of risks. And we are the brave.” “An hour, ninety minutes tops, right?” “For pool sex?”

Laughing, she punched his shoulder.

She decided a Sunday afternoon drive downtown didn’t completely suck. Closed case, long sleep, hot food—and a command center. Life could be a lot worse.

Maybe it would be the first first birthday party she’d ever attended, but how bad could it be?

Better not think about it.

“You’re sure the present deal got there?” she asked as he maneuvered into a parking place.

“I am.”

“I just don’t want to screw up, be those people who forgot the present for the kid.”

“Delivered yesterday, and stowed away by Leonardo.” “Okay. I bet there are going to be others there.”

“I certainly hope so.”

“No, I mean others. The others who crawl or walk like drunks with their hands waving, or zip around like Bella.”

“Ah, as in children. I’m sure you’re right.”

“Why do they stare? They’re always staring. Like dolls,” she said as they walked into the building. “Or sharks.”

“I have no idea, but now I’ll likely worry about it.” “Join the club.”

She took the stairs as she had countless times before Roarke, to the apartment that had once been hers. To the apartment, she thought, that, like her home office, no longer remotely resembled what had been hers.

She was a lot more than okay with that.

“Start the clock,” she told Roarke, and knocked.

The door swung open into noise, into color, into movement. Balloons, streamers, flying . . . unicorns, fairies, and a rainbow-

colored dragon.

All this lived behind the nearly seven-foot black man in a black vest over a red skin shirt. He grinned widely.

“Hey there, skinny white girl.” “Hey back, large black man.”

She accepted the hug that had her eyeballing the long red feather that curled down from his earlobe.

How many first birthday parties had the owner/bouncer of a sex club on the guest list?

Then again, Mavis. “Hey, Roarke.”

“Crack. Good to see you.”

“Cak, Cak, Cak,” came the call from behind him.

He turned, caught Bella on the fly. And the birthday girl, the pretty little golden-haired sprite in a frothy, sparkly pink dress and sparkly shoes that flashed with lights, nestled in the arms bulging with biceps and tattoos.

She whispered something in his ear that made him throw back his head and laugh.

When he turned around, Bella’s eyes widened with delight. “Das!

Ork!”

She launched herself at Eve, who managed not to fumble the pass. “Yeah, hey, happy birthday.”

Wiggling with glee, Bella launched into one of her incomprehensible monologues, then stopped. Her eyes filled with concern, sympathy, sorrow.

“What?” Instantly, sweat pooled at the base of Eve’s spine. “What did I do?”

“Boo.” It was heartfelt, as Bella touched her fingers to the fading bruise under Eve’s eye.

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Very carefully, Bella leaned in to touch her lips to the same spot, smiled, babbled.

“She says it’ll be all better.”

Eve glanced at Crack. “How the hell do you know what she’s saying?”

“I be bilingual.”

“You be full of . . . it.” Eve remembered to leave off the sh in front of the kid. And when she noted Bella had shifted her attention to Roarke with her dipped chin, angled head, flirty smile, Eve saw her chance.

“She wants you. You hold her.”

“Well, I—” But Roarke found his arms full of a flirtatious toddler, who latched on, kissed his cheeks, then batted her big blue eyes.

“You’re a charmer, aren’t you now?” Eve heard him say as she made her escape.

The floor was full of crawlers, toddlers, other little-type people with sticky fingers or drool.

She spotted Peabody and, relieved—even though her partner wore a pink dress with a line of silver frills down the right side— headed toward her.

But was intercepted by the call of her name.

Mavis, in pink (Jesus, so much pink!) skin pants—or paint?— covered with white stars and a crotch-skimming dress—or was it a top?—floating over it in summer sky blue with pink stars, dashed toward her on blue-and-pink-striped booties with dizzying heels. Her hair, fountaining on top and tumbling down the back, blended all the colors of the spectrum and bounced, just as she did.

She caught Eve in a fierce hug. “You came!” “Sure.”

“I wasn’t sure—not with everything juggling and whacked. Two minutes,” she added, then dragged Eve through the crowd.

Good God, Summerset! He appeared to be having a conversation with some kid who barely came to his bony knees.

And the Miras. She really wanted to get a good look at Dennis Mira, just to make sure he was all right. But Mavis kept dragging her until they stood in the symphonic rainbow that was Mavis and Leonardo’s bedroom.

“We didn’t get a chance to huddle much after the Nightmare at the Garden. I knew you’d come that time. I knew you’d come, and we’d all get through. I finally fell asleep, and when . . .” With a shake of

her head that sent the fairies dangling from her ears whirling, Mavis grabbed onto Eve again. “I was scared, so scared. I knew Bella was okay, home with the sitter. But I was scared if something happened to me and Leonardo . . . She wouldn’t have us.”

“She’s got you. She always will.”

“When I saw you, I stopped being scared. Today’s for happy. For really happy. My baby’s first birthday party.”

“Looks like, and sounds like, a hell of a party.”

“Wait until you see the cake. Ariel made it. It’s a fairy castle. With unicorns.”

“Naturally. Did you invite everyone you know?”

“Only the ones who count. Let’s get drinks. Lots of drinks.” Eve got a drink, and managed to pretty much avoid Trina—

especially when she noticed the hairdresser giving her hair that look. She saw Dennis Mira’s dreamy smile as he sat right on the floor to play some game with a gaggle of kids.

She watched McNab gallop around in his airboots with some other kid plastered to his back, who shrieked as if being stabbed—a sound everyone else appeared to assume meant pleasure. Garnet DeWinter was smiling down at some visually stunning midsized kid who talked earnestly to Mira.

Leonardo, a shiny, dome-shaped party hat on his long copper hair, beamed at his girls, manning the bar in a tunic the color of sapphires.

Louise and Charles—late to the party. Doctors and cops, Eve thought, and saw Roarke talking to Feeney. Doctors, cops, and criminals—reformed. Bouncers and ex-LCs. E-geeks and fashion designers.

And a serious boatload of kids.

She didn’t know everyone, but she knew a good chunk. Her people as much as Mavis’s. Like it or not.

Chaos got real when the time came for Bella to rip into the gifts. “Where the hell are they going to put them all?”

Roarke slid an arm around Eve’s waist. “They’ll find a way.”

Maybe, Eve thought, but certainly at the moment the kid was ridiculously thrilled with everything.

“Looks like we’re up,” Roarke said as Leonardo signaled. He slipped away with Leonardo into another part of the apartment.

Together they carried out an enormous box of glittery pink and silver.

“I’m told this is a magic box,” Roarke said to Bella, who stared at it with huge eyes. “And you’ve only to pull that ribbon there to see what’s inside.”

With Mavis’s help, Bella pulled the long pink ribbon. The box collapsed outward to reveal the contents.

She’d wanted a dollhouse, according to Peabody—and Mavis had confirmed. And since Roarke had been in charge . . .

Like the home he’d built for himself, it was more castle than house. And in this case, all girl. Pink and white and pretty with its turrets and drawbridges, its arched windows and fussy balconies.

Eve didn’t get it, just didn’t get the concept of giving dolls a place where they could gather to plot. But she got Bella’s reaction, and couldn’t deny the little squeeze of her own heart.

Bella gasped, put her fingers to her lips, her eyes saucer wide with shock. Mavis murmured to her, and those eyes went shiny as she looked up at Roarke, over at Eve.

Then another girl squealed and rushed forward.

Bella’s shiny eyes went hot and fierce, her teeth showed. Eve was prepared to see a long, forked tongue shoot out between them.

Obviously imagining the same, the squealer stopped dead, and backed up.

Shiny eyes returned, and Bella toddled to Eve. When Bella started to lift her arms, Eve took the safer course and crouched down.

“Das,” Bella said with a world of meaning in the single syllable. Her arms went around Eve, and she swayed in the hug—as her mother often did. “Das,” she said again, and held out a hand for Roarke. “Ork. Das. Ta. Ta. Ta.”

Whatever she said after was beyond Eve’s scope, but the emotion was crystal. Pure joy, deep gratitude.

“Glad you like it.” “Ove. Ove ou.”

Bella let out a long sigh, then sparkled as she danced in place.

Whirling, she charged the dollhouse, applauded, poked at it, pulled

out a throne-like chair, and hooted with laughter. “I’d say it’s a hit,” Eve said.

Then was struck when Bella looked over, smiled, and held out a hand to the squealer. An invitation to play.

A lot going on in that head, Eve realized, and everywhere else, too. A gift deeply wished for—let me take a minute here, sister. The thanks to the people who’d granted the wish, done with charm and sweetness. Another moment to celebrate, to have it for herself. Then a willingness to share it, to have someone enjoy it with her.

Nature, nurture, what the hell. The nature part was a lot of risk, a gamble, often the luck of the draw. Nurture could be kind or cruel, smart or insane—and still.

But here was a kid, with just one year under her belt. Sweet, innocent—but not stupid. Iron willed but compassionate. Already with her own sense of . . . style, Eve supposed. Her own little agenda.

How did all that get in there?

“You guys hit that one out of the park.” Peabody, sipping some frothy pink concoction, stepped up beside Eve to watch Bella and some of her friends with the dollhouse. “It’s abso-mag, and when the place clears out some, I’m getting a turn with it.”

She took another sip. “It’s a good day.”

“It’s holding its own,” Eve began. And her communicator sounded. “Shit. Shit.”

She switched to text—too many people—and read the message. “Shit again. I’ve got to go.”

“We catch one? We’re not on the roll.” “No, it’s Willow Mackie. Some issues.” “Let me tell McNab.”

“No, you stay. It’s just cleanup. If it turns into more, I’ll tag you. Crap. Tell Mavis I’m sorry.” She glanced around, saw Roarke had already fetched their coats. “Tell her—tell her I’ll tag her later.”

She grabbed her coat from Roarke, got out before any questions could delay her.

“What have you got?”

“A uniform in the hospital, a CS rep in hysterics, and people who’d better have a damn good explanation. We’re going in hot,” she added. “Because I am pissed.”