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  “So we heard.” Tossing back her long, dark hair Phoebe stepped over, gave Eve a hug and a kiss on the cheek. The quick laugh said Phoebe knew the display of affection embarrassed Eve. “You look formidable in uniform. And sexy. Doesn’t she, Sam?”

  “She does.”

  She got another hug and kiss, right in her own bullpen. Free-Agers, she thought, they just had to spread the love.

  She could only sigh with relief when they turned their attention to McNab and Roarke.

  “They never wanted me to be a cop,” Peabody said quietly, and drew Eve’s attention. “They love me, and they wanted me safe and home. But they love me, and they let me go. They came to see me get this commendation. I won’t puke or pass out.”

  “Good. Take off after the ceremony, spend some time with them.”

  “But McQueen—”

  “Not our case. Yet. Take the time, Peabody. Things could be bad for a while, so take the good while you’ve got the chance.”

  She stood on the steps of Central in air damp and steamy from the morning storm. Maybe she’d have preferred a more private venue for the ceremony—less media, less fuss—but Peabody deserved the moment. As did Detective Strong, who stood with them, braced on crutches.

  They’d pulled the crowd the mayor hoped for with plenty of reporters, fellow cops, family, the simply curious. She let the boring speeches roll over her while she scanned.

  Nadine Furst, of course, front and center with the media corps. She wouldn’t miss the story, or stint on friendship. She saw Mira, dressed in one of her lovely suits, and reminded herself to speak to the department’s top profiler and shrink about Julie and Tray.

  Peabody’s parents, holding hands. Mavis, her oldest friend, stood with them, along with her husband and baby.

  She hadn’t expected them. Apparently playing down this whole medal business hadn’t worked. Obviously, she thought, as she spotted Crack—hard to miss a giant, tattooed black guy with feathers hanging from his ears. And beside him stood Charles, the slick former licensed companion along with his new bride, the dedicated Dr. Louise Dimatto.

  She felt a flutter of mild horror as she watched Trina elbow her way up to Mavis, nuzzle baby Bella, then shoot Eve a narrowed, critical look.

  Jesus, it wasn’t as if anybody could even see her hair under the cap. Anybody but Trina, she decided. She suspected the hair-and-skin tech had X-ray vision.

  Eve looked away, found Roarke, decided she felt more comfortable looking at him.

  Who wouldn’t?

  Then she experienced sheer shock as she was damn sure she caught a glimpse of a bony figure in black. Summerset, Roarke’s majordomo, pain in her ass, walking cadaver, here?

  Maybe she was hallucinating due to interminable-speech boredom.

  Every cop in her division attended, and as per her request stood on the steps. As did Feeney, her former trainer, partner, and current captain of the Electronic Detectives Division. His hangdog face remained sober, but she thought his eyes were a little glazed.

  Imagined hers might be, too.

  She tuned in again at the sound of applause, slid her gaze toward Commander Whitney as he joined the mayor. He, too, wore dress blues. She thought, as she often did, of the street cop he’d been before he’d taken the chair.

  They moved to Strong. The mayor spoke quietly to her about her service, her injuries, fixed the medal on her chest.

  The process repeated with Eve. She didn’t have anything—particularly—against the mayor. But Whitney’s handshake meant more than a politician’s words to her.

  “Well done, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Now came the pride as the mayor spoke Peabody’s name. Integrity, honor, courage. She let the smile come—what the hell—as she heard Peabody’s voice, just a little shaky, accept the congratulations and gratitude.

  For a moment it was okay—the time, the fuss, even the round of photo ops. Because she stood with two good cops, and the man she loved so much it made her stupid was smiling at her.

  The milling began—shoulder slaps, handshakes. She caught the glint in Peabody’s eye, and fired one back.

  “No hugging. Cops don’t hug.”

  Peabody tracked her gaze to Strong, currently being hugged by another cop.

  “She sustained injuries.”

  “Okay, but in my mind you’re getting a giant hug and a big, sloppy kiss.”

  “Keep it in your head or you’ll sustain injuries.”

  Feeney stepped up to her, his uniform cap pulled low over his explosion of ginger and silver hair. “Nice work, kid.” He gave her the acceptable cop hug—a punch on the shoulder.

  “Thanks.”

  “Thought the mayor would never shut up, but all in all, it’s a damn good deal.”

  Peabody got her hug and big sloppy, with the addition of a pat on the ass from McNab.

  “Yeah, it’s a damn good deal.” She spotted Roarke making his way to her, and feared she’d get a hug—and more—despite her call for dignity.

  But instead he simply took her hand in both of his. In his eyes she saw something that made her own sting. She saw pride.

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant.” He tapped the medal with a fingertip. “It suits you. And to you, Ryan,” he said to Feeney, “for your part in making her the cop she is.”

  Feeney’s color came up, as it did when he was pleased or embarrassed. “Well, she had the raw material. I just had to kick it into shape here and there.”

  “He did plenty of that,” Eve began. “I think he—”

  She broke off. She saw him, just a glimpse, just a flash. The handsome face, the jailhouse pallor. Sunshades, sandy hair slicked back, a smart gray pinstriped suit, royal-blue tie.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  She sprang forward, but the crowd swallowed them both. One hand on the butt of her weapon, Eve muscled her way through, craning her neck. Cops and civilians swarmed around her; the noise of downtown rolled over streets and sidewalk. An ad blimp blasted out a jingle for a sale at the Skymall.

  Roarke snaked his way through to where she stood on the sidewalk, one hand still on her weapon, the other fisted in frustration.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw him. He was here.”

  “Who?”

  “McQueen. Isaac McQueen.” She shook her head. “Son of a bitch. I have to report to the commander.”

  “I’ll wait. Go,” he said. “I’ll make your excuses to Mavis and the rest. And Eve.” He laid a hand on her arm. “I want to hear about this—all of it—when you’re done.”

  Commander Whitney still wore the uniform, as did Eve, when she walked into his office. He stood behind his desk, a big man who carried the weight of command well on strong shoulders. His dark eyes, cop’s eyes, measured her before he nodded.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir. He wanted me to see him, wanted me to know he could walk right through a sea of cops outside this house. He needs to insult and humiliate this department, and me in particular. I need to put a team together, Commander, asap, and find him.”

  “He’s being hunted, Lieutenant, by the NYPSD, and the FBI.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “I understand you want him, and want a piece of the hunt. I’m not going to tell you not to use your considerable knowledge of McQueen, and your resources to aid the search. The fact is he wants you as much as you want him, and I suspect has given you a great deal more thought over these past years than you’ve given him.”

  “I know him, Commander.” The frustration she’d felt on the street wanted to bubble back to the surface. “Better than any cop in the NYPSD, better than anyone in the FBI. I made it my business to know him. I don’t want to wait until he kills someone to make him my priority.”

  “Do you believe he’ll contact you again?”

  “Yes, sir, he will.”

  “Then we’ll take it from there. In the meantime put together everything you know about him, run your probabilities, use you
r resources. I expect a full report from the warden, the chief administrator, the prison psychiatrist in charge of McQueen’s case, and the guards on his block by morning. You’ll be copied.”

  “He has a plan. He always has a plan. He didn’t walk out of Rikers without one. I want to interview other prisoners he had regular contact with, and the guards. I need access to his records, his visitor’s list, his communications.”

  “The prison’s conducting an internal investigation.”

  “Commander, he’s been out for nearly twenty-four hours.”

  “I’m aware of that, Lieutenant. I wasn’t informed about the escape until this morning.” He waited a beat, nodded slowly. “The mayor and I had more to discuss today than handing out medals, however well deserved. Prison administration has requested until nine hundred to conduct their investigation. They’ve been given the time. I can promise you at one minute past nine tomorrow, you’ll have what I have.”

  “They’re playing politics and CYA. By nine tomorrow, he could have taken another girl. More than one.”

  “I’m aware of that as well.” He sat now. “Even after we’re given what we need, we may not know anything to aid in this manhunt. His previous capture involved solid police work, Dallas, and a stroke of luck. We’re going to need both to put him back where he belongs.”

  She took time to change, to gather up all the file discs she needed, the old reports. Even then she could still taste the bitterness in the back of her throat.

  As arranged, Roarke met her by her vehicle in the garage.

  “Here, let’s have those.” He took one of the loaded file bags she carried. “I’d’ve helped to carry these down if you’d told me you were loading up.”

  She wanted to say it was her weight to carry, but that sounded pompous. “I didn’t realize there was so much.”

  Not entirely true, she thought, and let him take the wheel. There was more yet on Isaac McQueen, stored in her home office.

  “First, I should tell you I declined a number of invitations for drinks, dinner—and/or a mag, drunken partython at the venue of your choice.”

  The last would be Mavis, Eve deduced. “Sorry.”

  “No need. You have a lot of people proud of you today, and who understand you’ve work to see to. Peabody’s parents plan to stay a day or two, and hope to see you again before they leave the city.”

  “Yeah, that’d be good.” She drummed her fingers on her knee.

  “How did it go with Whitney?”

  “About like I expected. Less than I want.”

  “From the heft of those bags, I’d say it’s going to be a busy night.”

  “I won’t get data from the prison until morning. Isaac McQueen. He’s—”

  “I looked him up while you were with Whitney, so I have the salients. Twenty-six girls. And then there was you. I want to hear it, Eve, from you.”

  “I’ll tell you all of it. I guess I need to. But I have to clear my head. I have to settle it down. He could be anywhere.” She stared at the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings, the ever-moving crowds. “Anywhere. I want to be out there, looking, but it’s a waste of time and energy. I have to think, and I can’t think until I get my head straight. I need to work some of this off, sweat a little. Take an hour in the gym.”

  “With a sparring droid you can beat up?”

  She smiled, a little. “Not quite that much.”

  “Take your hour. Then we’ll talk.”

  She remained silent until he drove through the gates, down the long curve of the drive to the beautiful house with its towers, its turrets, its unique style.

  He’d built this, she thought. This house. This home. Her home now, too—and that was something else that could steal her breath.

  “I didn’t have anyone to talk to about it before. I hadn’t started training with Feeney, hadn’t met Mavis. I didn’t think I needed or wanted anyone to talk to about it. I think now, this time, if I didn’t, I might go a little crazy. I don’t know if I could take going back alone.”

  “You’re not.” As he had at Central, he took her hand in both of his. “And never again alone.” This time with his eyes on hers, he brought her hand to his lips. “Take your hour. Go on, I’ll get your file bags.”

  He knew, she thought, because he’d read about McQueen, that she needed time and understood why. She wasn’t sure what she’d done in her life to earn someone who understood her so well.

  She stepped inside.

  Then again, nothing came free.

  Summerset stood in his stiff, funeral-black suit, his face stern as a headstone—and the fat cat, Galahad, squat at his feet.

  “I find I can still be shocked,” he said. “You’re home nearly on time, and unbloodied.”

  “Day’s not over. You know I thought I saw a dead man walking a couple hours ago. Did you have to go downtown for some eye of newt?”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I prefer doing my shopping uptown.”

  “Must’ve been another corpse.” She strode by him, opted to take the elevator down to the gym.

  Thinking the lieutenant had looked quite impressive in her uniform, standing on Central’s wide steps, Summerset walked over to open the door for Roarke.

  And lifted his eyebrows at the file bags. “I take it any celebratory dinner is on hold.”

  “It is, yes. An old adversary come round again. It’s troubling,” Roarke said as he started upstairs with the cat trotting after him.

  She ran three miles, hard, selecting an urban setting, so the program simulated the sound of her feet pounding on pavement, the buzz of traffic—street and air.

  She set another program for weights and pumped until her muscles wept. When that wasn’t enough, she showered off the sweat in the bathroom attached to the expansive gym.

  She’d do a couple dozen fast laps in the pool, she decided, and burn off the last of this ugly frustration and sick fear.

  She didn’t bother with a bathing suit, but just grabbed a towel. More than the hour she’d asked for, she noted, but she wasn’t quite there yet.

  When she stepped out into the tropical paradise of the pool area, wound through the trees, the flowers, she saw him sitting at a table. He’d changed into a T-shirt and casual pants. He had a bottle of wine, a couple of glasses—and worked with apparent enjoyment on his PPC.

  Waiting for her, she thought. Wasn’t that a miracle? This amazing man would wait for her, would be there.

  She hadn’t needed the three miles, she realized, or the weights or the laps. All she needed was Roarke.

  “There you are.” He glanced up. “Better?”

  “I took longer than I said. I got caught up.”

  “No matter. I had a bit of work to finish up, and had a swim as well.”

  “Oh. I was thinking you’d take one with me.”

  “Well, I could, but I always enjoy watching you in the water, especially since you like to swim naked.”

  “Pervert.” She walked to him. “Why don’t you come in? Unless watching’s all you’re up for.”

  She let the towel drop.

  “When you put it that way.”

  Rather than diving in as was her habit, she walked down the steps, through the lagoon corner, ordering on the jets and blue lights as she slowly sank in.

  “I was going to burn the rest off with some laps,” she said as Roarke shed his clothes. “But I figure you can do a better job of it. Maybe.”

  “A challenge.” He joined her in the water. “Something else I’m always up for.”

  She tipped her head back, shot her fingers in his hair, gripped it. “Prove it,” she said, and dragged his mouth to hers.

  She wanted hot and hard, like the jets pulsing in the blue water. No tenderness, no gentle caress, but greedy and careless.

  He knew, he always knew. She set her teeth on his shoulder as his hands took, rough and ready, whipping her to the place where there was no room for thoughts, for worries, for a wor
ld of the cruel.

  His mouth, his mouth, scorching her skin, devouring her heart right through her breast while his hand shoved between her legs. The first orgasm ripped her as he dragged her under the water.

  Breathless, blind, she sank into the pool, into him and the battering sea of sensation. Only to surface on a wild cry of release when he pulled her up again.

  She wrapped around him, slick with water, hot with needs. Her hands and mouth were as busy as his, as demanding and urgent. The trouble he’d seen in her eyes, the sadness he’d sensed coiled in her dropped away. With them went his worry, went everything but this mad, almost brutal wanting.

  Snared in it, he shoved her to the wall. His fingers dug into her hips as he plunged into her.

  Breathless gasps muffled against his mouth. He wanted to swallow them, swallow her in deep, dark gulps. The water slapped and slithered, sluiced off skin faintly and eerily blue in the light.

  “Take more.” Steeped in her. Drowning in her. “Take more.” Yes, she thought, yes. More. Gripping the edge, she wrapped her legs around his waist. Arching up, arching back, she took until her cries echoed around the garden. Took until there was nothing left.

  3

  He knew if it was left up to Eve they’d have the conversation and what passed for a meal in her home office. Another case, he decided, where she needed more. As summer refused to retire for the season, he arranged for the meal on one of the terraces where the gardens burst with color and scent.

  There, with the air stubbornly holding the damp from the morning’s storm, tiny lights glimmered, candles flickered against the dark.

  “I’ve got a lot of research to get to,” she began.

  “Undoubtedly, and we’ll take all the time you need once I understand the situation, and you’ve got some food in you. Red meat.” He lifted the cover off a plate.

  Eve eyed the steak. “Playing dirty.”

  “Is there another way? We’ve a barrel of salt for your fries.”

  She had to laugh. “Really dirty.” She took the wine he offered. “You know my weaknesses.”

  “Every one.” And he hoped the pretty table, the pretty evening would help her through what she had to tell him. “I’ll wager you missed lunch.”