Page 118 of Random in Death
“He’s a cat, Roarke,” Eve called out. “Do you figure cats understand the concept of later?”
“This one best learn to.”
Black made it easy—or easier, considering her myriad choices. She slapped it all together, including boots, lightweight despite their good, thick soles.
In case she got the chance to chase the bastard down and tackle him.
When she came out to strap on her weapon harness, Roarke gave her a long look.
“No comments,” she reminded him.
“Even if I say you look respectful, for the memorial, while still looking formidable and utterly in charge?”
She swung on her jacket. “Okay, those comments are admissible. I’m heading straight in,” she said as she grabbed her pocket items. “I want to be there before Whitney contacts me, orders me up to his office.”
“You’re expecting that?”
“Two murders, one attempt in three days. He’s going to bring up inviting the feds to assist. He has to.”
“And your response?”
“Oh, hell no. But with more respect and diplomacy. I want to dig into the schools, hard and deep. Plus I want to look over the security feed from the theater, start the barber shop angle. Nag the crap out of the lab on the door prints. I still need to go through Arlie Dillon’s room, and hopefully follow up with Kiki Rosenburg.”
“So a full day of work before you start.”
“If he doesn’t hit again tonight, he will tomorrow. And if he hits again, kills again, and slides away, we’ll have to call in the feds. We’ll need them.”
“You’re all but breathing down his neck now, so my bet remains on you.” He cupped her chin, tapped his thumb in its shallow dent before he kissed her.
“Tag me, will you, before you make that tackle. I’d like to be there if I can manage it. And see you take care of my cop.”
“Affirmative to both. He’s going for it,” she added as she walked out.
When Roarke glanced back, the cat stopped his oh-so-casual walk toward the table. He turned, sat, shot up a leg, and began to wash diligently.
“Mind your step, mate, or we’ll think about replacing you with a nice, obedient hound.”
At the word hound, Galahad sent one searing look over his shoulder.
“Consider that,” Roarke advised.
Maybe it was a gift from the universe, or maybe she’d fallen into the perfect window, but traffic streamed right along all the way downtown.
She pulled into the garage at Central a solid twenty minutes ahead of shift. Time, she thought as she strode to the elevator, to do her updates, write up a report from the attack on Kiki Rosenburg. Maybe start a city-wide search on the upscale barbers.
Her luck held as she rode up to Homicide with barely any stops and starts, shuffle-ons, shuffle-offs.
In her office, she hit the coffee before setting up the barber search on auto. She updated her board and book while it ran, and considered the next logical steps in the day.
The incoming from the commander’s office told her what that first step would be.
She had the full complement of detectives in the bullpen when she walked out. And Jenkinson’s tie.
She couldn’t say for sure, but she thought they called the color fuchsia. If fuchsia was irradiated. White fuchsia-eyed rabbits hopped over it.
She imagined they had really sharp, pointed teeth under their sly smiles.
They made her wonder why she always felt compelled to look.