“Did you think we wouldn’t find him?”
“No, I knew we’d find him, but—like I said—a body’s tangible. No getting around it now. No stopping it. We have to take her down.”
She got in the passenger seat so Roarke could take the wheel. He gave her a few moments with her thoughts as he navigated the route back uptown.
“Have you decided how you’ll structure this for Whitney?”
“Straight, start to finish. Once Peabody chilled, her statement of events was cohesive, so we have that on record. By tomorrow, she’ll have steadied more, and she’ll stand up when Whitney questions her.”
“So you’re taking a couple hours down as much for that as to give your commander a full night’s sleep.”
“Maybe. Yes,” she admitted. “Off the record. We’ll lay out the steps we took to locate Keener, and show Whitney the record of the discovery. It’ll be up to him what comes next, but I’ll be able to present him with the most logical and practical plan. We have to keep the investigation taut and tight. It’s not just corruption, it’s murder. And Keener’s not the first.”
“It’s hard for you, going after one of your own.”
“She stopped being one of my own the minute she went on the take.” Deliberately Eve relaxed her shoulders. “I don’t know how close Whitney might be with Commander Oberman. I know he served under him, and he took the chair when Oberman retired. That means something, the passing of command. Renee Oberman’s served under Whitney, and that means something, too.”
She sighed now. “We all know that we may be able to keep the investigation under a lid, but when it’s done, when we bust it, the lid comes off. The media’s going to rip into this like jackals on a fresh kill. I can’t even blame them.”
“When it makes you sad or discouraged, and it will, this process as you call it, think of Peabody in that shower stall, trapped, while two people who’ve exploited their badges to line their own pockets discuss the business of murder.”
She sat in silence for a couple blocks. “That was well put,” she said after a while. “Succinct, and all that. And good advice. Then there’s Keener. He was probably a schmuck, almost certainly a very bad guy, but he’s mine now. And the cop who left him choking on his own vomit in that filthy tub? He’s going to be mine, too, right up until I slam the cage door on him.”
Roarke had barely braked in front of the house when Peabody rushed out.
“You found him.”
“First stop,” Eve confirmed. “Luck of the draw. It’s all on record, and the scene’s being monitored.”
“Set up like an OD?”
“Yes. It corroborates your statement.”
“I don’t know whether to be relieved or sorry,” Peabody said as McNab ran a hand down her back. Strain shadowed her eyes, leeched her color.
“Be neither. Acknowledge it, then move on. We’ll have plenty to deal with in the morning. Get some sleep. Take the room you usually take when you flop here.”
“You’re not going to contact Whitney?”
“It’s nearly three in the morning, but you’re free to wake him now if you’re in a hurry.”
“No, that’s okay. Ha. A little sleep would be good.”
“Then go get some.” To make a point, Eve started up the stairs.
“Is there anything you need tonight?” Roarke asked them.
“No.” McNab took Peabody’s hand, gave it a squeeze. “We’re set.”
Roarke leaned down, kissed Peabody’s brow. “Then sleep well.”
He followed Eve into the bedroom, closed the door as she took off her weapon harness. The strain showed in her, he noted, as it had in Peabody. A rub on the back, a hand held might help a bit. But he knew what would shift her mind, at least briefly.
“You owe me makeup sex, but I’m happy to take your marker.”
As he’d expected, she scowled at him. “Why do I owe the makeup sex?”
“Because you were partially sorry first.”
She narrowed her eyes as she sat to pull off her boots. “That just means you lagged behind in the partially sorries. I think that means you owe me. I’ll take your marker.”
“I might agree with that, on the condition that your part of said agreement includes the far-famed sexwear.” He watched her pull an oversized NYPSD T-shirt over her head. “Which I’m hoping that isn’t.”
“I can agree to those terms.” She climbed into bed.
“Then it’s a date.” He slid in beside her, wrapped her against him.
“I have to program the alarm.”
“What time?”
“Ah, I’m going to contact Whitney at six-hundred sharp. I should probably give myself an hour to prepare.”
“Five then. Don’t worry. I’ll wake you.”
Trusting he would, she closed her eyes.
She’d have sworn five minutes passed when she woke to the seductive scent of coffee. She slitted her eyes open and saw him.
He sat on the side of the bed holding a huge mug of coffee a few inches from her nose. He’d ordered the light on, about twenty percent, she judged, so the room held a soft dawn glow.
“You brought me coffee in bed?”
“You could consider me the prince of husbands—or just that I was awake before you. It’s just gone five,” he added.
“Ugh.” She pushed herself up, muttered a thanks, then took the mug and glugged. Then she closed her eyes and let the beauty of caffeine slide through her system. “Good.” Glugged some more. “Shower.” She crawled out of bed, said, “More,” and drained the mug before pushing it back into his hands.
Halfway to the bathroom she glanced back over her shoulder. Crooked a finger. And pulling off the T-shirt, let it drop to the floor as she walked the rest of the way naked.
Roarke set the empty mug on the nightstand. “Who am I to refuse such a gracious invitation?”
She’d ordered the jets on full, and—of course—brutally hot. He’d never get used to her love of boiling herself, and often himself as well, in the shower. Steam pumped, blurring the glass of the big, open area. She stood, sleek and wet, face lifted, eyes closed.
“A prince would probably wash my back.”
Obliging, Roarke tapped a panel and, when it opened, cupped his hand to catch a creamy fall of soap. “You slept well, I take it.”
“Mmmm.”
Her back, narrow and smooth, with just a hint of gold from their days in the sun on their recent holiday, arched—just a little—at the glide of his soapy hands.
He loved the feel of it, the soft skin over tensile strength. The long length of it tapered to her waist then gave way to the subtle flare of her hips.
Lean and angular, his cop, built for both speed and endurance. And yet he knew her vulnerabilities, where a touch—his touch—would weaken or incite.
The delicate curve at the back of her neck, the little dip at the base of her spine.
He continued down, sliding, circling the silky liquid over slim, strongly muscled thighs. Up again, fingers teasing, advance and retreat, in lazy seduction.
She hooked her arm around his neck, arching back. And in a limber twist from that narrow waist, turned her head until her lips found his, until they parted for a long, deep mating of tongues.
She turned, her eyes glimmering like burnished gold through the water.
“You missed a few spots.”
“Careless of me.” He filled his palm with soap, swirled it over her shoulders, her breasts, her torso, her belly.
Every inch of her yearned, here in the heat and steam, with the pounding and pulsing of water against tile, against flesh. His hands were magic on her body, triggering needs, tripping sensations, finding—owning—her secrets. His mouth, when he used it on her, infused her body with a thousand aches of pleasure.
His fingers found her, opened her, and wet to wet stroked her through those aches and beyond.
She wrapped around him, a sleek, fragrant vine, her hands tangled in his hair, her mouth avid on his. Her heart beat wild and strong against his chest in quick, lusty kicks. And she filled her hands with soap, glided them over his back, his hips, slicked them between their slippery bodies to take him in that silkened grip.