“And as they’re calling for a few days, at least, of this warming trend, they’ll start excavation on the pond today.”
“‘The pond’?” It took her a minute to remember the walk they’d taken on the grounds months before. Somehow they’d decided to put in a little pond, picked the spot. “We’re really doing that?”
“It’ll be pleasant, won’t it, when spring decides to come and stay awhile to wander out and sit by the water.”
“Yeah, it will. When does the whole thing about March happen?”
“Which thing is that?”
She circled a finger in the air as she gulped more coffee. “The one about the sheep lying down with the lion.”
“Lamb. The lion lies down with the lamb.”
“A lamb’s a sheep, and the lion’s lying down to eat the stupid sheep. I don’t get what it has to do with March.”
“Because it has nothing to do with it. I think you mean March comes in like a lion and goes out like a sheep. A lamb,” he corrected, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s a bloody lamb.”
“Yeah, it would be if it’s hanging around with a lion.”
He watched her walk into the adjoining bath and thought, Well, she has a point.
He had breakfast waiting under warming domes when she came out. When he lifted the domes, she cocked her head.
“No oatmeal?”
“To celebrate the warming trend.”
“Let’s hear it for spring.”
He had gone for a full Irish because who knew when or if she’d take time for a decent meal during the day. In lieu of the black pudding which she disliked intensely, he’d selected a small yogurt and fruit parfait.
She sat, dug in. “So after your predawn ’link or holo or whatever meetings, you’re probably headed out for more.”
“I have a thing or two.”
“You’ve got that revised what’s-it report you ordered up yesterday.”
“Signed off this morning. And you, I expect, will be on the hunt.”
“Yeah.” Curious, she studied a bite of sausage. “Why do you call them bangers?”
“I’m not entirely sure, something about how they sound when they’re being fried up. I think.”
“Huh. Well, good whatever they’re called.” She ate the sausage, continued, “Anyway, I can hope we get a hit from the BOLO on Duff. Either way, I’m heading to the morgue this morning. I want a conversation with the sleazy ex-lawyer at some point, and a closer look at the Banger Duff was banging.”
“Bolt,” Roarke recalled. “He has killer in his eyes.”
“Yeah, he does. I also need a conversation with whoever’s riding cases on the Bangers. I should probably talk to Lyle’s brothers, his grandmother. He might have said something to them he didn’t say to Rochelle.”
She crunched into bacon. “If he was going to meetings, earned his second-year chip, he probably has a sponsor. Another conversation. I’ve got to set up the board and book, write up a report on the visit to the Banger HQ, the underground.”
“On the hunt,” he repeated.
“Yeah, and I won’t be slogging through snow or crap rain doing it.”
Thinking of it, when she finished breakfast, she took a simple white shirt out of her closet. No need for a sweater. Then she stopped, abruptly flummoxed by the rails of pants, of jackets, the shelves of boots.
She’d gotten so used to hauling out cold-weather clothes, she wasn’t quite sure what to grab.
She wasn’t going to ask Roarke or use the closet comp (he’d hear that, wouldn’t he?) She knew how the hell to dress herself. It was just . . . long winter.
She grabbed pants. Brown. Not Feeney’s shit brown, but a chocolate brown that reminded her to check the ceiling tile in her office, make sure the candy bar she’d booby-trapped was still there. Then she snagged a navy jacket because it had that brown leather piped at the cuffs and down the side seams.
She studied her selection of boots, the number of which continued to be an embarrassment for her. Milder embarrassment than it once had been, but still.
She started to grab brown ones, but she knew damn well the navy ones with the brown leather down the sides went with the damn jacket, and if she took the plain brown, Roarke would switch them out anyway.
Why give him the satisfaction?
She pulled on the pants, a support tank, reached for the shirt.
And damn if Roarke didn’t stroll in, take it, replace it with another white shirt. “You’re just fucking with me now.”
“Though that’s one of my favorite things, it’s simply a matter of the softer white—dare I say oatmeal color—being a better choice than the other.”
“Fine. Whatever.” She put it on. It fit as if it had been tailored for her—which she assumed it had.
She didn’t argue—what was the point?—when he offered her a navy belt.
“You know, murdering bastards don’t care if I coordinate.”
She carried the jacket, the boots out into the bedroom.
“And yet it adds to the intimidation factor when you present a strong, competent appearance.”
“Maybe.” She hooked on her weapon harness, added her pocket and belt paraphernalia. “A solid left jab adds intimidation.”
“You’ll look well-dressed when you deliver one.” He nodded approval as she put on the jacket, the boots. “Strong and competent,” he repeated as he stepped over, kissed her. “That’s my cop. You take care of her today.”
“Don’t bitch if I get blood on the boots.”
“Have I ever?”
“No.” And because he hadn’t, she kissed him back. “We’re good,” she said as she walked out. “See you later.”
* * *
It definitely felt like the lion, Eve thought when she walked outside. The air had bite, and the wind held a low, throaty roar. She hopped in her waiting car grateful for the blast of the heater.
As she headed toward the gates then through them, she sent Peabody a voice text to report to the morgue.
The air blimps were back, blasting out their hype from a blissfully blue sky. No ice, no rain to dampen New York drivers’ competence at the wheel down to zero, no gritty gray piles of snow heaped at the curbs.
Maybe the lion really was getting ready to lie down.
Of course the lack of gray and gloom, rain and sleet didn’t stop the traffic heading downtown from tangling, clogging, or breaking noise-pollution laws with screaming horns.
But she’d take it.
The sun actually glared—enough that she dug into the center console, and found she was pleasantly surprised to locate a pair of sunshades.
As she bullied her way downtown, she thought over her impressions of Marcus Jones aka Slice.
A badass, no question, and one likely to end up dead on the street or spending a lot of quality time in a cage. But not completely stupid. Smart and badass enough to work his way up to a command post in the Bangers, and, more, to have outside business interests.
A landlord, a property owner with business partners. Sleazy ones, but non–gang member business partners.
So where had he gotten the scratch to buy into real estate?
Illegals, identity theft, the protection racket. Could be some skimming off the top—or bottom—of gang business involved. Or some side deals—a little blackmail maybe, some solo illegals action.
Considering, she sent a memo to a contact in Illegals. Detective Strong—solid cop—who might be able to fill in some blanks.
One thing stood out for her, and she replayed it in her head as she parked. Slice’s reaction when he heard Lyle Pickering had been murdered.
Shock—that had read genuine—and anger. Not the smirking smugness she might have expected, not the dismissive shrug. Maybe, just maybe, he possessed the acting skills that could earn him one of Nadine’s dickless gold guys. But why trot them out?
If he hadn’t arranged the hit on Pickering—and she had to give that a fifty-fifty at this point—who had?
And why?
She stuffed the shades in her coat pocket as she started down the white-tiled tunnel of the morgue. She smelled bad coffee, somebody’s breakfast burrito, chemical cleaner, and the death none of those other scents could quite smother.
As she reached Morris’s double doors, she heard the familiar clomp heading her way. Peabody sort of trotted down the tunnel. Not in her fuzzy-topped pink snow boots, but in the pink cowgirl boots Eve—in a moment of weakness—had allowed Roarke to persuade her made a fine souvenir gift for her partner.
Then there was the pink magic coat, another moment of weakness. The color, Eve thought, not the magic. Another scarf worked the pink into what Eve assumed stood as spring green.
At least the pants were a dignified black, even if she’d styled her hair into a short, yet jaunty, tail.
“Good morning!” Peabody all but sang it. “Isn’t that a beautiful sky out there? And we’re heading up into the sixties today.”
“I’m sure the dead guy on the slab in there shares your joy.”
“Aw.” Then Peabody did a couple of shoulder bounces. “He’s dead either way, but we get to hunt down his killer under blue skies.”
Hard to argue, Eve decided. And since it was, she pushed through the doors.
Under his protective cloak, the chief medical examiner wore a suit not the color of Peabody’s beautiful sky, but softer, more the tone it would take on as dusk crept in. He’d paired it with a shirt the color of the salmon Galahad favored.
Which she had to admit, was a kind of pink.
His tie matched the suit, as did the cord woven through the black braid down his back. Though blood streaked his sealed hands, his dark eyes warmed as he looked up—and paused in the act of weighing some internal organs.
Kidneys, Eve decided.
“Ah, two of my favorite people, and my first live visitors of this gorgeous day.”
His tone matched the—damn it—jaunty music on his speakers. She began to worry that spring wasn’t such a winner after all.