In Death 27 - Salvation in Death by J. D. Robb

Author:J. D. Robb
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2008-10-03T16:00:00+00:00

13

BECAUSE IT GAVE HER TIME TO CONTINUE THE backgrounds she’d begun in her office, Eve asked Roarke to take the wheel for the drive to Brooklyn. As neither of them had finished in their respective offices until after six, traffic was expectedly hideous. Occasionally, she glanced up from her PPC as Roarke maneuvered around, through, and over the horn-blasting, vicious bumper-to-bumper. And wondered why, not for the first or last time, people who worked in Brooklyn didn’t live in Brooklyn, and people who worked in Manhattan didn’t just live the hell there.

“Do they actually like it?” she wondered. “Get off on the rage, consider it a daily challenge? Are they doing some kind of twisted penance?”

“You’ve been working faith-based cases too long.”

“Well, there has to be a point to subjecting yourselves and others to this insanity every day.”

“Finances, lack of housing.” He flicked a glance in the mirror, then arrowed into the breath of space between a Mini and an all-terrain. “Or the desire to live outside the city in a more neighborhood sort of environment while earning city salaries—while others want the energy and benefits of the city for living, and find work in one of the other boroughs.”

In a slick move, he changed lanes again, a dodge and weave that gained them maybe a dozen feet. “Or they’re simply going over the bloody overcrowded bridge for some sort of business. Which, I’m forced to point out, we are at this moment. At a shagging crawl.”

“We’re going to check out a woman who appears to live sensibly, moving across the bloody, overcrowded bridge and securing employment where she lives. She has what’s probably a ten-minute commute—by foot—to work. Less if she takes the subway. If she turns out to be my Lino’s mother, I wonder if he fought his way over to Brooklyn, at a shagging crawl, to visit.”

Accepting he was well and truly stuck now—bugger it—Roarke sat back and waited for his chance. “Would you, in his place?”

“Hard to put myself there as what little I remember of my relationship with my mother wasn’t cookies and milk. But . . . you come back home, hiding out for five to six years, and your mother—your only living blood relative as far as I can ascertain, excepting the half-sibling she’s had since you took off—is living across the bridge—bloody overcrowded or not. It seems you’d be compelled to see her. To check it out.”

“Might be it wasn’t cookies and milk with his ma either.”

“He kept the medal she gave him, so there was something there, some bond. If there’s a bond, that something, you’d want to see her, see how she was, what she was doing, who this guy is she’d married, see the half-brother. Something.”

“If this is your Lino.”

“Yeah, if.” She frowned over that, wondering if a hunch was worth the trip to Brooklyn during the inaccurately termed rush hour. “First big one. If we get over that one, and he did make contact, did go see her, then she has to know, with all the media coverage, that her son’s dead.

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