The In Death Collection 06-10 (68 page)

“I came down on her. She deserved it.”

“She’s filed a complaint that you used abusive and inappropriate language.” When
Eve rolled her eyes, he did smile. “You and I both know that kind of a complaint is
no more than a
nuisance and generally makes the complainant look like a soggy-spined fool. However . . .” His smile
faded. “She also claims that she observed your work on-scene as sloppy and careless. That you misused her trainee and
threatened her with physical harm.”

Eve felt the blood begin to sizzle hot under her skin. “Peabody recorded the on-scene investigation.
I’ll have a copy of it on your desk immediately.”

“I’ll need that to dismiss the complaint officially. Unofficially, I’m fully aware
it’s bullshit.”

There were two chairs. Because both of them were battered and creaky, Whitney gave them a dubious look
before settling into one. “I’d like to hear your take on this before I act.”

“My investigation will stand, and so will my report.”

He laced his fingers, kept the expression on his wide face bland. “Dallas,” was all he said
and had her blowing out a huff of breath.

“I handled it. I don’t believe in running to a superior officer or filing papers over a minor
incident between cops.” When he only continued to stare, she jammed her hands in her pockets. “The ranking officer
on-scene had not secured the area properly upon my arrival. She was appropriately chastised about the lack of proper procedure.
Officer Bowers displayed a marked tendency toward insubordination, which was dealt with, again in my opinion, appropriately. On his
own, her trainee indicated to me that on previous scans of the area, there had been another crib beside the victim’s, which had,
since the day before, been moved. He had reported same to his trainer and his observation had been dismissed. This observation,
when followed up on, netted a witness. I invited the trainee, Officer Trueheart, to join in the interview of this witness, who was known
to him. Trueheart, as will be stated in my report, shows excellent potential.”

She paused in her flat recitation, and heat flashed in her eyes for the first time. “I deny all charges but
the last. I might very well have threatened Officer Bowers with physical harm and will ask my aide for verification. My
regret, at this time, is that I did not follow through with any threat I may have made and knock her on her fat ass.
Sir.”

Whitney lifted his brows but managed to conceal amusement. It was a rare thing for his lieutenant to add
personal temper to a verbal report. “Had you followed through, Lieutenant, we’d have a nice little mess on our hands. I
assume, knowing exactly how thorough you are, that you or your aide has done a run on Officer Bowers. At least a minimal run, and
are therefore aware of her record of transfer. She is what we call a problem child. The department tends to move their problem
children from area to area.”

He paused a moment, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck as if to ease some ache. “Bowers is
also a champion filer. Nothing she likes better than to file complaints. She’s taken a strong dislike to you, Dallas, and off the
record, I’m warning you that she’s likely to make trouble for you, however she can.”

“She doesn’t worry me.”

“I came down here to tell you that she should. Her type feeds on trouble, on causing trouble for
other cops. And she’s aiming for you. She copied Chief Tibble and her department representative on this complaint. Get the
on-scene record, and your report, and a carefully worded response to this complaint on my desk before end of day. Use
Peabody,” he added with a slight smile, “on the last. She’ll have a cooler head.”

“Sir.” Resentment shimmered in her voice, in her eyes, but she held her tongue.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’ve never had a better cop under my command than you, and my
personal response to the complaint will say so. Cops like Bowers rarely go the distance. She’s stumbling her way out of the
department, Dallas. This is only a hitch in your stride. Take it seriously, but don’t give it more of your time and energy than
necessary.”

“Spending more than five minutes of my time and
energy on it when
I’ve got a case to close seems excessive. But thank you for your support.”

He nodded, rose. “Damn good coffee,” he said wistfully and set aside the empty cup.
“By end of shift, Dallas,” he added as he walked out.

“Yes, sir.”

She didn’t kick the desk. She thought about it, but her knuckles were still stinging from bashing
them against another inanimate object. Rather than risk hurting herself again, she called Peabody in to deal with the machine and access
the contact numbers for Snooks’s next of kin.

She managed to reach the daughter who, though she hadn’t seen her father in nearly thirty years,
wept bitterly.

It did nothing to soothe Eve’s mood. The closest she came to cheerful was watching
Peabody’s reaction to the complaint filed by Bowers.

“That flat-faced, piss-for-brains bitch!” Red-faced, hands fisted on her hips, Peabody went
into full rant. “I ought to go dig her out of whatever hole she’s in and kick her ugly butt. She’s a fucking liar,
and worse, she’s a lousy cop. Where the hell does she get off filing some whiny, trumped-up complaint against you? What
house was she out of?”

Peabody whipped out her memo book and began to call it up. “I’ll go down there right now
and show her just what a complaint feels like when it belts you between the eyes.”

“Whitney said you’d be a cool head,” Eve said with a grin. “I’m so
glad to see the commander knows his troops this well.” Then she laughed because Peabody’s eyes were all but
bulging out of her head. “Take a couple of breaths, Peabody, before something explodes in your brain. We’ll handle
this in an appropriate manner through the proper channels.”

“
Then
we’ll flatten the bitch, right?”

“You’re supposed to be a good influence.” With a shake of her head, Eve sat down.
“I need you to copy the on-scene record to Whitney and to write your own report. Keep it straight and simple, Peabody. Just
the
facts. We’ll write them independently. I’ll compose a response to the complaint, and when
you have that cool head Whitney believes in, you can go over it for me.”

“I don’t know how you can take this so calmly.”

“I’m not,” Eve muttered. “Believe me. Let’s get to work
here.”

She got it done, keeping her tone coolly professional throughout. During the final pass of her response, the
list she requested from Cagney came through. Ignoring the headache beginning to blaze a trail behind her eyes, she copied all discs
pertaining to the case, made what she considered a rational, reasonable call to maintenance—she only called them morons
twice—then took everything with her. It was end of shift, and by God, she was going home on time for a change, even if she did
intend to work once she got there.

But her temper began to simmer and spike as she drove. Her hands clenched and unclenched on the wheel.
She’d worked hard to become a good cop. She’d trained and studied and observed and was willing to work until she
dropped to stay a good cop.

Her badge didn’t simply define what she did but who she was. And in some ways, Eve knew, that
badge, what it meant, had saved her.

The first years of her life were either gone or a blur of pain and misery and abuse. But she’d
survived them, survived the father who had beaten her, raped her, who had damaged her so badly that when she was found broken
and bleeding in an alley, she hadn’t even remembered her name.

So she’d become Eve Dallas, a name given to her by a social worker and one she had fought to
make mean something. Being a cop meant she wasn’t helpless any longer. More, it meant she was able to stand for those who
were helpless.

Every time she stood over a body, she remembered what it was like to be a victim. Every time she closed a
case, it was a victory for the dead, and for a young girl without a name.

Now some stiff scooper with an attitude had attempted to put a smear on her badge. For some cops, it
would be an annoyance, an irritation. For Eve, it was a deep, personal insult.

A physical woman, she tried to amuse herself by imagining what it would feel like to take Bowers on in a
good sweaty match of hand-to-hand. The satisfying sound of bone against bone, the sweet scent of first blood.

All the image managed to do was infuriate her. Her hands were tied in that arena. A superior officer
couldn’t go around whipping on a uniform, no matter how much she deserved it.

So she drove through the gates and up the gracious sweep of private road to the stunning house of stone
and glass that was Roarke’s. She left her car in front, hoping, really hoping, that tight-assed Summerset said something snotty
about it.

She barely felt the cold as she jogged up the steps and opened the tall front door. There she waited, one
beat, two. It normally took Roarke’s butler no longer to slide into the foyer and insult her. Today, she wanted him to, craved
it.

When the house remained silent, she snarled in frustration. The day, she thought, was going just perfectly.
She couldn’t even take a swing at her worst enemy to release some steam.

She really, really wanted to hit something.

She stripped off her leather jacket, deliberately tossed it over the carved newel post. But still, he
didn’t materialize.

Bastard,
she thought in disgust and stalked upstairs. What the hell was she supposed to do with this barely controlled fury
bubbling inside her if she couldn’t hammer Summerset? She didn’t want a round with the sparring droid, damn it. She
wanted human contact. Good, violent human contact.

She stepped into the bedroom, intending to sulk in a
hot shower before going to
work. And there was Roarke. She eyed him narrowly. Obviously, he’d just come in himself and was just hanging his suit jacket
in the closet.

He turned, angled his head. The glittering eyes, flushed face, and aggressive stance told him just what kind
of mood she was in. He closed the closet door and smiled. “Hello, darling, and how was your day?”

“It sucked. Where’s Summerset?”

Roarke arched a brow as he crossed the room. He could all but see waves of temper and frustration
pumping off of her. “He has the evening off.”

“Great, fine.” She swung away. “The one time I actually want the son of a bitch,
he’s not here.”

Roarke’s eyebrow stayed lifted as he slanted a look toward the fat gray cat curled on the bed. They
shared a brief, silent stare, and Galahad, preferring to avoid violence, leaped to the floor and slinked out the door.

Cautious himself, Roarke ran his tongue around his teeth. “Something I can do for
you?”

She whipped her head around, scowled at him. “I like your face, so I don’t want to break
it.”

“Lucky me,” Roarke murmured. He watched for a moment as she paced, prowled, kicked
halfheartedly at the sofa in the seating area. And muttered to herself. “That’s a lot of energy you’ve got going
on in there, Lieutenant. I think I can help you with that.”

“If you tell me to take a goddamn soother, I’m going to—” It was as far as
she got before her breath whooshed out and she found herself tackled onto the bed. “Don’t mess with me,
ace.” She shifted, bucked. “I’m in a pisser of a mood.”

“So I see.” He barely blocked her elbow, managed to cuff her wrists with one hand, and
used his weight to keep her pinned. “Let’s just put all that to good use, shall we?”

“When I want sex, I’ll let you know,” she said between her teeth.

“Okay.” Even as she hissed at him, he lowered his head and bit her lightly on the throat.
“While I’m waiting,
I’ll just amuse myself a bit. You have a . . .
ripe taste when you’re mad.”

“Damn it, Roarke.” But his tongue was doing incredible things to the side of her neck, and
the juices stirred by anger began to swim in a different direction. “Cut it out,” she muttered, but when his free hand
closed over her breast, her body arched toward him.

“Nearly done.” His mouth skimmed her jaw, then crushed onto hers in the fierce and feral
kiss her mood seemed to demand. He tasted temper, the edge of violence, the whip of passion. His body tightened, his own needs
flashed. But when he eased back, he gave her a bland smile. “Well, if you’d rather be alone—”

She broke his loosened hold on her hands and grabbed him by the front of his shirt. “Too late, pal.
Now I want sex.”

Grinning, he let her shove him onto his back. She straddled him, planted her hands on his chest.
“And I’m feeling mean,” she warned him.

“Well, I did say for better or worse.” He reached up, releasing her weapon harness before he
began to unbutton her blouse.

“I said
mean.”
Her breath was already coming short as her fingers curled into the
black silk of his shirt. “How much did this thing cost?”

“I have no idea.”

“Just as well,” she decided and tore it open. Before he could decide whether to laugh or
curse, she pounced, her teeth digging into his shoulder. “It’s going to be rough.” Empowered by the taste of
flesh, she fisted her hands in his hair. “And it’s going to be fast.”

Her mouth dived to his, taking greedily, driving the kiss toward violence. Glorying in it. She clawed at him,
ripping at his clothes as they rolled over the bed.

Wrestling now, hands grappling to take, mouths ravenous. Frantic groans, quick shudders came from both
of them as weaknesses were sought out and exploited. They knew each other’s bodies and those weaknesses well.

All the frustrated energy peaked into hunger, a need to
take and take quickly, to take
all. His teeth on her naked breast, his hands bruising her flesh in their rush to possess, only heightened the appetites. Her own breath
was in rags and her mind in tatters as she arched up, pressed sex to sex.

There was a feral sound in her throat as he yanked her up to her knees, as their bodies met, torso to torso,
and mouth plundered mouth.