Survivor in Death (40 page)

Nixie's eyes flew up again. “Who?”

“You don't know them. I know who they are. And I know why.”

“Why?”

“Because your father was a good man who did good work. Because he was good, and these people aren't, they wanted to hurt him and everyone he loved.”

“I don't understand that.”

She looked, Eve thought, like a wounded angel with all that tangled blonde hair surrounding a face haunted by fatigue, and worse. “You're not supposed to understand it. Nobody's supposed to understand why some people decide to take lives instead of living decent ones of their own. But that's the way it is. You're supposed to understand that your father was a good man, your family was a good family. And the people who did this to them, to you, are wrong people. You're supposed to understand that I'll find them and put them in a goddamn cage where they'll spend what's left of their miserable, selfish lives. That has to be good enough, because that's all we've got.”

“Will it be soon?”

“Sooner if I'm working instead of standing here in the damn hallway talking to you.”

The slightest flicker of a smile curved Nixie's lips. “You're not really mean.”

Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets. “Am, too. Mean as spit, and don't you forget it.”

“Are not. Baxter says you're tough, and sometimes you're scary, but it's because you care about helping people, even when they're dead.”

“Yeah? Well, what does he know? Go back to bed.”

Nixie started toward her room, then paused. “I think, when you catch them, when you put them in a goddamn cage, my dad and my mom, and Coyle and Inga and Linnie, I think they'll be okay then. That's what I think.”

“Then I better get working on it.”

She waited until Nixie was back in her room, then walked away.

She found Roarke still working with the unregistered, and with barely a grunt of greeting crossed over to take the coffee he had on the console and gulp some down.

A second later she was coughing and shoving it back in his hand. “Oh, blech. Brandy.”

“If you'd asked, I'd have warned you there was brandy in it. You look a bit worse for wear, Lieutenant. Brandy might be a good idea.”

She shook her head and got herself a cup, strong and black and without additives. “How's it going here?”

“He's very good--or one of them is very good. Every thread I tug on leads to another knot, which leads to another set of threads. I'll unravel it--I'm bloody determined now--but it won't be quick. But a thought occurred while I've been picking these threads apart. I wonder how he'd feel if his funds were frozen.”

“I've got no forensics, nothing solid tying him to the murders. The best I've got is a composite from a street LC's perspective, which looks nothing like him. I know it's him, but I'll never get the flag to freeze his assets based on nothing much more than my gut.”

“It would be a fairly simple matter for me, at this point, to make a sizable withdrawal from these accounts.”

“Steal the money.”

“Let's say transfer the money. Steal is such a ... Well, it's a fine word, isn't it? But transfer would be more to your taste.”

She thought it over. Tempting, tempting, tempting. Still, it wasn't only not by the book, it exploded the book entirely. “Nixie intercepted me, for a change. She said she thought her family would be okay once I caught these guys, once I put them in a goddamn cage.”

“I see.”

“She probably shouldn't swear, I'm a bad influence. Spank me. But--” She broke off at the wide grin that spread over his face, and found herself laughing. She covered her face, rubbed it. “Just stop. Anyway, that kind of thing gives me a nudge to go out of bounds-- more out of bounds,” she added, looking around the room. “But say you did. Say it pisses him off enough to make the kind of mistake that opens him up to me. Hooray for our side. But it could, given his profile, piss him off enough to have him taking out a couple of Swiss bankers first, or a lawyer in--what was it? Eden. So let's just hold that in reserve.”

“You make a point.”

“You know, this day has just been crap.” She sprawled in the chair, stretched out her legs. “Making progress, I can feel it, but overall it's been weighed down with big piles of crap. And I finished it up with a cargo ship of shit.”

“Would it have something to do with the blood on your trousers?”

She looked down, saw the streaks and sprinkles of red. “It's not blood. It's cherry fizzy.”

She drank her coffee and began to take him through. “So when I made them, I pulled up at a twenty-four/seven, sent Trueheart inside for drinks, and--”

“Hold.” He held up a hand. “You realized one or more of these people, people responsible for several murders and who are, very likely, hoping to get to you, were trailing you, and you sent your backup off for sodas?”

She didn't squirm under his gaze, one she imagined he aimed at underlings who'd cocked up some deal and were about to be demolished by his iciest wrath.

But it was close.

“I wanted to see what they'd do.”

“You were hoping they'd move on you, and got Trueheart out of the way.”

“Not exactly. Close, but--”

“I asked one thing, Eve. That when you decided to use yourself as bait you'd tell me.”

“I wasn't--it was an immediate sort of. ..” She trailed off as the headache moved along from the base of her skull to squeeze into the top of her head. “Now you're pissed, at me.”

“What gave you your first clue?”

“You'll have to be pissed, then.” She shoved to her feet to prowl. “You'll just have to be pissed because I can't stop and check every move with you when I'm out there. I can't stop and say, 'Hmm, would Roarke approve of this action, or gee, should I tag Roarke and run this by him?'“

“Don't you swat away my concerns like they're gnats around your ears.” He got to his feet as well. “Don't you dare make light of them, Eve, or what it is to me to sit and wait.”

“I'm not.” But of course she was, a knee-jerk defense mechanism. Before she could say anything else, he was plowing on.

“I bury my own instincts every bloody day to stay out of your way as much as I do. Not to let myself think, every minute of every bloody day you're out there if tonight's the night you don't come back.”

“You can't think that way. You married a cop, you took the package.”

“I did, and I do.”

It wasn't ice in his eyes, she noted. It was fire, strong and blue. And that was somehow worse. “Then--”

“Have I asked you to change what you are, what you do? Have I complained when you're called away in the middle of the night, or when you come home smelling of death?”

“No. You're better at this than I am. Media flash.”

“Bollocks. We've both managed to fumble our way through nearly two years of each other, and quite well. But when you give your word to me, I expect you to keep it.”

The headache had reached behind her eyes now, stabbing fingers gleefully poking. “I guess that cargo ship hasn't quite finished dumping shit on me today. And you're right. I broke my word. It wasn't intentional. It was of the moment. And it was wrong. I let it get to me. The kid, the body in the alley, dead cops, children killed in their beds. I let it ball up in my throat, and I know better.”

She shoved the heels of her hands into her temples in a desperate attempt to relieve the pressure. “It was worth the chance, I believe it was worth the chance, but it turned out to be the wrong call. You're not the first one to scrape me over about it tonight. Whitney's already taken off a few layers of skin.”

Saying nothing, he moved back behind his console, pressed a button. He took a small bottle out of a drawer, tapped two little blue pills into his hand. Then he fetched a small bottle of water out of the friggie behind a panel.

“Take the blockers. Don't argue,” he snapped when she opened her mouth. “I can see the fucking headache pounding as I'm standing here.”

“It's past headache. It feels like my brains are being squeezed out my ears.” She took the blockers, dropped back into the chair, and dropped her head in her hands. “I fucked up. Goddamn clusterfuck. Cops and civilians in the hospital, private and city property damage up the wazoo. Three murder suspects still at large. Because I made the wrong call.”

“I guess that's why they call you lieutenant instead of God. Sit back now, relax a minute.”

“Don't baby me. I don't deserve it. I don't want it. They were too close. Had to figure they'd stick that close because they were trying to monitor any communications. The vehicle has screens, but they've got choice toys, so I had to figure they were within visual for a reason. If they could track me or monitor me, they needed to be close. I didn't want to risk calling it in.”

“That seems reasonable. Logical.”

“Yeah, seems. I call it in, they catch the signal, they poof. So I pulled over, sent Trueheart into the twenty-four/seven so it looked like I had a reason, so it looked casual. To see what they did. They drove by, circled around, and picked me up again. So then I figure I'll switch it on them. Get behind them, call in support, keep on them until we can box them in, take them down. But Jesus Christ, that van moved. I don't know how they've juiced it up, but I clocked it at one-twenty-six, airborne. Then there were the laser rifles, and God knows. They took out a couple of black-and-whites, a number of civilian vehicles, and a maxibus. And I lost them.”

“All by yourself?”

“It was my call. The wrong call. Best I got was make and model of the van. And the plate. Turns out the plate belongs to a black panel van of that make and model, but not that panel van. Dupe plates, and they were smart enough to dupe them from the same type of vehicle. Guy who owns the legal van--which was legally parked at his place of business--is a licensed home handy. He's clean, and he was home watching screen with his wife.”

She took a swig of water. “So we got injuries, property destruction, possible--hell, probable--civil suits against the department, and the suspects know I've made their ride.”

“And Whitney dressed you down right and proper.”

“Ho boy.”

“I doubt he'd have done differently than you, under the same circumstances.”

“Maybe not. Probably not. Still a wrong call. And the mayor will chew out the chief, the chief will chew out the commander, and down to me. Nobody below me on this particular feeding chain. The media will have a feeding frenzy.”

“So, you got your ass kicked a bit. A little ass kicking from time to time builds character.”

“Hell it does. It results in a sore ass.” She let out a sigh. “I've got data on all purchases of that make and model. Popular. I left the color open. Figured it'd be easy to paint. I don't expect to have bells ring on that angle. If it were me, I'd've bought it out of town. Or jacked it off some lot outside New York. There won't be a record, there won't be a bill of sale.”

“You're discouraged.” And he hated to see it. “You shouldn't be.”

“No, just feeling a little beat up tonight. Sorry for my sorry self.”

“So get some sleep. Start fresh in the morning.”

“You're not.”

“Actually, I will.” He gave commands to save, lock, and shut down.

“You've got your own work tomorrow.”

“I've rescheduled some things.” He walked her out, secured the doors. “I spoke with Richard and Beth. They're coming to meet Nixie tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? I'd asked for quick but I didn't expect immediate.”

“Actually, they've been talking about taking another child. Have just put in applications. And Richard tells me Beth hoped for a girl this time. They both see this as a kind of sign.”

He laid his hand on the base of her neck as they walked to the bedroom and rubbed what she thought of as his magic fingers on the dulling ache. “Fate's a fickle and often insensitive bitch, isn't she?” he commented. “And yet, there are moments you see the work. If their daughter hadn't been murdered, they would never have looked to take a child into their home. If a friend of mine hadn't met the same fate, I wouldn't have met that little boy, or paid mind to him, thought of suggesting they might give him a home.”

“If Grant Swisher hadn't helped Dian Kirkendall, he and his family would still be alive.”

“Insensitive, yes. Still, now Nixie will have a chance for a life with Richard and Beth. She'll grow up knowing there are people in the world who try to balance the scales.”

“You don't say if Sharon DeBlass hadn't been murdered, you and I wouldn't have met in the first place.”

“Because we would have. Another time, another place. Every step of my life was bringing me to you.” He turned her, kissed her forehead. “Even the ones on the darkest road.”

“Death brought us here.”

“No. That's discouragement talking. It's love that brought us here.” He unhooked her weapon harness himself. “Come now, you're asleep on your feet. Into bed.”

She stripped, climbed the platform, slid in. And when his arm came around her, she closed her eyes. “I would've found you,” she murmured, “even on the darkest road.”

The nightmare crept in, stealthy feet tiptoeing over her mind. She saw herself, the small, bloody child, packed into a blinding white room with other small, bloody children. Fear and despair, pain and weariness were thick in the room, crowding it like yet more small, bloody children.

No one spoke, no one cried. They only stood, bruised shoulder to bruised shoulder. Waiting for their fate.

One by one they were led away by stone-faced adults with dead eyes. Led away without protest, without a whimper, the way sick dogs are led away by those charged with ending their misery.

She saw this, and waited her turn.

But no one came for her. She stood alone in the white room, with the blood that coated her face, her hands, her arms, dripping almost musically onto the floor.

It didn't surprise her when he walked into the room. He always came, this man she'd killed. The man who'd broken her and ripped her and beaten her down into a quivering animal.

He smiled, and she smelled it on him. The whiskey and candy.

They want the pretty ones, he told her. The good ones, the sweet ones. They leave the ones like you for me. No one will ever want you. Do you wonder where they go when they leave?