Each contact took time. A housekeeper at a hotel wasn’t accustomed to receiving a call at home, at work, on her pocket ’link from the owner of that hotel. From the man in the suit, in the towering office. Each call was tedious, repetitious, and he was forced to admit, annoyingly clerical.
Routine, Eve would have called it, and he wondered how she could stand the sheer volume of monotony.
“Yo, Irish.” Callendar broke through Roarke’s wall, poking him in the arm. “You need to get up, move around, pour in some fuel.”
“Sorry?” For a moment, her voice was nothing more than a buzz within the buzz. “What?”
“This kind of work, the energy bottoms if you don’t keep it pumped. Take a break, get something to power up from Vending. Use a headset for a while.”
“I’m not even through the bloody B’s.”
“Long haul.” She nodded, offered him a soy chip from the open bag at her station. “Take it from me, move around some. Blood ends up in your ass this way, not that yours isn’t prime. But you want to get the blood back up in your head or your brain’s going to stall.”
She was right, he knew it himself. And still there was a part of him that wanted to snarl at her to mind her own and let him be. Instead he pushed back from the station. “Want something from Vending, then?”
“Surprise me, as long as it’s wet and bubbly.”
It did feel good to be on his feet, to move, to step away from the work and the noise.
When he walked out, he noted cops breezing along, others in confabs in front of vending machines. A man, laughing wildly, was quick-marched along by a couple of burly uniforms. He didn’t rate even a glance from the others in the corridors.
The place smelled of very bad coffee, he thought, old sweat, and someone’s overly powerful and very cheap perfume.
Christ Jesus, he could’ve used a single gulp of fresh air.
He selected a jumbo fizzy for Callendar, then just stood, staring at his choices. There was absolutely nothing there he wanted. He bought a water, then took out his ’link and made a call.
When he turned, he saw Mira walking toward him. There, he decided, was the closest thing to fresh air he was likely to experience inside the cop maze of Central.
“I didn’t realize you were still here,” he said.
“I went home, couldn’t settle. I sent Dennis off to have dinner with our daughter, and came back to do some paperwork.” She glanced down at the enormous fizzy in his hand, smiled a little. “That doesn’t strike me as your usual choice of beverage.”
“It’s for one of the e-cops.”
“Ah. This is difficult for you.”
“Bloody tedious. I’d sooner sweat a year running an airjack than work a week as a cop.”
“That, yes, not at all the natural order for you. But I meant being used this way, and not knowing why, or by whom.”
“It’s maddening,” he admitted. “I was thinking a bit ago that I don’t know the bulk of these women we’re trying to contact. They’re just cogs in the wheel, aren’t they?”
“If that’s all they were to you, you wouldn’t be here. I could tell you that you’re responsible for none of what’s happened, or may happen to someone else. But you know that already. Feeling it, that’s a different matter.”
“It is,” he agreed. “That it is. What I want is a target, and there isn’t one. Yet.”
“You’re used to having the controls, and taking the actions, or certainly directing them.” She touched a sympathetic hand to his arm. “Which is exactly what you’re doing now, though it may seem otherwise. And that’s why I’m here, too. Hoping Eve will give me some job to do.”
“Want a fizzy?”
She laughed. “No, but thanks.”
They walked in together, then separated as Roarke went back to his station and Mira crossed to Eve.
“Give me an assignment,” Mira said. “Anything.”
“We’re contacting these women.” Eve explained the list, the approach, then gave Mira a list of names.
W earing black-tie, he settled into his box in the Grand Tier of the Metropolitan Opera House. He richly anticipated the performance of Rigoletto. His newest partner was secured and sleeping. As for Gia…well, he didn’t want to spoil his evening dwelling on that disappointment.
He would end that project tomorrow, and he would move on.
But tonight was for the music, the voices, the lights, and the drama. He knew he would take all of that home with him, relive it, reexperience it while he sipped a brandy in front of the fire.
Tomorrow, he would stop the clock.
But now, he would sit, tingling with pleasure, while the orchestra tuned up.
H e ordered a freaking deli, was all Eve could think when the food began to roll in. There were trays and trays of meats, bread, cheese, side salads, sweets. Added to it, she saw two huge bags-distinctly gold-of the coffee (real coffee) he produced.
She caught his eye, and hers was distinctly hairy. He only shook his head.
“No lip,” he said.
She pushed her way through the schoolyard rush to his station. “A word.”
She moved out of the room, and when he joined her the din from the war room was a clear indicator no one else objected to the possibility of corned beef on rye.
“Listen, I went along with the pizza parlor, but-”
“I have to do something,” he interrupted. “It’s little enough, but at least it’s something. It’s positive. It’s tangible.”
“Cops can spring for their own eats, and if I clear an order in, I’ve got a budget. There are procedures.”
He turned away from her, turned back again with frustration simply rolling off of him. “Christ Jesus, we’re buried in shagging procedures already. Why would you possibly care if I buy some fucking sandwiches?”
She stopped herself when she felt the teeth of her own temper in her throat. “Because it’s tangible.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes, rubbed hard. “It’s something to kick at.”
“Can’t you take an hour? Look at me. Look at me,” he repeated, laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re exhausted. You need an hour to stretch out, to turn off.”
“Not going to happen, and by the way, you’re not looking so perky yourself.”
“I feel like my brain’s been used as a punching bag. It’s not the time, or even the lack of sleep so much. It’s the unholy tedium.”
That made her frown-and put her back up again, a little. “You’ve done cop work before.”
“Bits and pieces it comes clear to me now, and that with some challenge and a clear end goal.”
“Challenge? Like risking your life and getting bloody.”
Calmer, he circled his head on his neck and wondered how many years it might take to get the last of the kinks out. “A lot more appealing, sad to say, than sitting in front of a screen or on a ’link for hours on end.”
“Yeah. I know just what you mean. But this is part of it, a big part of it. It’s not all land to air chases and busting in doors. Listen, you can take an hour in the crib. Probably should. I’ll clear it.”
He flicked a finger along the dent in her chin. “Not only does that sound extremely unappealing, but if you’re on, I’m on. That’s the new rule until we’ve finished this.”
Arguing took energy she didn’t have to spare. “Okay. All right.”
“Something else is wrong.” He put a hand under her chin, left it there even when she winced and tried to knock it off. “Shows what happens when your brain’s used as a punching bag that I didn’t see it before. What is it?”
“I figure having some murdering bastard who slipped by us before back torturing and killing women under our noses is pretty much enough.”
“No, something else in there.” It was the “slipped by us” that clicked for him. “Where’s Feeney?”
For an answer, she shifted, and kicked the vending machine so viciously it sent off its security alarm.