37 Fantasy in Death

Author:J.D. Robb
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

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Epilogue

There'd been a time, Roarke thought, not so long ago in the bigger scheme, when a few hours in a cop shop would've been something to be carefully and ruthlessly avoided. Now, he spent so much time in one he knew which Vending areas to avoid, which glides tended to drag or crowd up, and just how filthy cop coffee could be by the end of a tour.

His life had taken a sharp and strange turn the first instant he'd laid eyes on a cop, his cop, in an ill-fitting coat and a truly ugly gray suit.

He fingered the button from that suit, one he kept for luck and sentiment in his pocket.

She'd been a first for him at a time when he'd come to believe he'd done nearly everything worth doing at least once. Had he been bored? he wondered as he angled his way onto a down glide. No, not bored, but perhaps a bit unsettled, restless, certainly dissatisfied in ways he hadn't been able to put his finger on at the time.

Then, there she'd been, and everything shifted, everything sharpened. He couldn't say what fell into place. Nothing with Eve was quite that easy, but pieces had begun to fit together. Some of them, on both sides, had required a bit of reshaping, and likely still would as more and more of their picture emerged.

As he rode down, a pair of uniforms rode up. The rattail-thin man between them protested loudly and continually.

"Somebody musta planted that wallet on me. I got enemies. I was only running 'cause I had a bus to catch. Do I look like a pickpocket? Do I? Do I?"

You do indeed, Roarke thought, and if you can't lift a wallet without fumbling the snatch, you deserve your ninety-day stretch.

Eve wouldn't think quite that way, he mused. It wasn't the getting caught, but the act itself that earned the stretch. Most of the time he agreed with her, and in fact had edged over to her side of that line more and more as time went by. But a bit of quick fingers? Well, everyone had to make a living, didn't they? Even a street thief.

He ought to know.

He crossed into Homicide where the sounds, the sights, the smells had come to be as familiar to him as those in his own head-quarters.

Detective Baxter stood by his desk, straightening his tie. He paused, tapped a finger to his temple in salute.

"LT's in her office. Trying to get a head."

Roarke acknowledged the black humor with a quirked brow. "You've had all day, and that's the best you've got?"

"Already used up all the good ones. Anyway, I've been off shift for, hey, look at that, an hour. So my brain's a little... detached."

"Better, marginally. Where's your boy?"

"Sent him home, and stayed back to finish the Fours and other crap. He's got a date."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah, our Trueheart's finally worked it up to ask out the little redheaded cutie in Records. He was seeing somebody else, but it fizzled.

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