Page 36 of Obsession in Death

Since it was the same gray as the pants and had a pencil-thin stripe that matched the sweater, she had to assume he was right. Anyway, it was there, so she shrugged into it.

Then narrowed her eyes. “Do I look like an accountant?”

“Not in a million years. No offense whatsoever to accountants.” He rose, went to her. “You look like a well-dressed cop.”

“That’s a—what do they call that thing?—oxymoron. Except for Baxter. Shit, I’ve got to talk to him, too, and Reineke and Jenkinson.” She rubbed the slight ache between her eyebrows when Roarke said nothing. “I’ve got to talk to them all. They’ll have bits and pieces by now, that’s how it works. I’ve got to brief them all.”

“You run a well-oiled division with good cops.”

“They are good cops. Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

“Take care of my particular, and well-dressed, cop.” He kissed her lightly.

As she drew away, her communicator sounded. And dread rolled through her.

She pulled it out. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to 524 Avenue B, unit 311. Possible homicide. Victim visually ID’d by responding officers as Ledo—first name unknown at this time. Responding officers report written message left for Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Possible connection to ongoing investigation.”

“Yeah, I got that. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. I’m on my way.”

“Confirmed. Dispatch out.”

“Ledo.” Eve shoved down the guilt. “For Christ’s sake.”

“I’m going with you so you can tell me who he is on the way.”

“There’s no need for you to—”

“I’d like to go with you.” Roarke took her shoulders, firmly. “Then I’ll get out of your way. If you don’t want to think about your husband’s natural concern, consider me that fresh eye and viewpoint.”

“Okay, fine, you drive. I can see what Ledo was up to since the last time I dealt with him.”

She moved fast, grabbing her coat off the newel post, swinging it on, hesitating only a moment when Roarke held out a scarf she recognized as one Peabody had made her for Christmas.

“It’s cold,” he said.

“Fine, fine.” She wrapped it on as she headed for the door, grateful Peabody had gone with muted colors.

As she strode toward the waiting car, engine and heat running, he pulled a ski cap over her head.

“It’s black. Live with it.”

Rather than argue—or point out he wasn’t wearing a stupid hat—she jumped in the passenger seat, pulled out her PPC to do a quick run on Ledo.

“First name Wendall—who knew? Age thirty-four. You’d peg him as a decade older, but that’s chemical abuse among every other abuse you can think of. He did a quick stint for possession since I saw him last—six-month sentence, four served, with mandatory rehab—got that checked off, and I can promise you it didn’t take. Repped by court-ordered attorney. No connection to Bastwick I can find here, and there’s not going to be. Unless we’re counting me.”

“Tell me about him,” Roarke said as he bulleted through the gates.

“Second-rate—no that’s being kind. Third-rate illegals dealer, chemi-head who was real fond of the funk. He was showing signs of those by-products. Liked to play pool—was good at it, but he’d lose that once the funk blurred his vision. Haunted the underground, and was a regular at Gametown. An asshole, a complete fuckhead. Mostly nonviolent. Run, hide, and lie. Crap.”

She sat back a moment, closed her eyes.

“When did you last deal with him?”

“Winter before last, before I lost my badge. The whole organ-theft, sidewalk-sleeper murders.”

Waverly, she remembered, had been on her dream jury.

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