Page 51 of Concealed in Death

The first time she’d walked into the bedroom to see a Christmas tree had been a little overwhelming. Now it was simply tradition. The elves could take care of the rest of the house, drape it in lights and tinsel, put up a dozen trees—she wasn’t sure she’d ever counted all of them—but this was theirs.

So with the fire simmering, champagne bubbling, and hokey Christmas music playing in the background, they decorated their personal tree.

The cat uncurled, sat for a moment or two to watch. With a decided lack of interest he stretched—ears to tail—turned his habitual three circles, then settled down for another nap.

“The whole city’s like holiday on Zeus,” Eve commented. “And it’s only going to get worse. Then we’ll have the B and Es where, as traditional as Santa, the Christmas Burglar swoops in, snatches all the presents under the tree, and has them fenced by dawn.”

“Bah humbug.”

“Yeah, that’s his version of ho, ho, ho. Then there’s the shoplifting, the pickpocketing as the tourists flock in with their wallets practically jumping out into the pickpockets’ hands.”

“Ah, happy memories,” Roarke said. “December was always a busy month when I was a boy on the hunt for those jumping wallets.”

“I bet. Back when I was in uniform, you couldn’t keep up with the incident reports on muggings, purse snatchings, and lifted wallets in December.”

She hung a jolly Santa with an overflowing pouch. “Then it gets closer to Christmas and you start getting the domestic disputes, the drunk and disorderlies, the botched self-terminations, the murders, and the holiday favorite, murder-suicide.”

“My cop,” he said affectionately. “What cheerful thoughts she has on this festive occasion.”

“I like it.”

“Murder-suicide? Sorry, darling, I’ll have to disappoint you. Maybe next year.”

“No, Christmas. I didn’t used to. When I was a kid—after Richard Troy,” she qualified. “He’d go out, get plowed, and probably laid. That was a gift, come to think about it. Anyway, after it was always weird if I was in a foster house, and just fucking depressing in a group home, so it wasn’t high on my list of holidays.”

“It wasn’t roasted goose and plum pudding in my memories either. I’d usually go over to a mate’s or a few of us would go out, bang around.”

“Hunting more wallets.”

He sent her a cheerful look. “You have to celebrate somehow, after all.”

“Yeah, you do. I used to take the extra shifts, so cops with families could get the break. And after Mavis and I hooked up, we’d do something.” She studied a shiny silver reindeer. “Why are they reindeer? What kind of a name is that?”

“They need the reins for Santa to navigate the sleigh.”

She slanted him a look. “Right. Anyway, with me and Mavis and Christmas, it usually involved a lot of alcohol.”

“We can serve that tradition.” He topped off her glass.

“She dragged me out ice-skating once.” She brought the memory back, laughed and—what the hell—drank more champagne. “We were both pretty trashed by that time or she’d never have talked me into it.”

“I’d pay good money to see that.”

“She zipped around pretty good. God, she had this pink coat with purple flowers all over it, and she’d done her hair in Christmas red and green.”

“That hasn’t changed. I’ve wondered how Mavis came to have that ugly gray coat you borrowed.” He drew out of his pocket the button he always carried, the one that had fallen off the unfortunate coat the first time they’d met.

“Holdover from her grifting days. A blend-and-be-dull deal, she called it.”

“That explains that.” He slid the button away again. “And how were you on the ice, Lieutenant?”

“It’s just balance and motion. I stayed on my feet. She would have, but she kept trying to do those fancy spins, and she’d face-plant or fall on her ass. She had bruises everywhere, but I still had to drag her off the damn ice after an hour or something. Ice is freaking cold.”

“I’ve heard that. We should try it sometime.”

“Ice-skating?” She gave him a look of genuine shock. “You? Me?”

“Which makes we. Brian and I and some others liberated some skates one winter. We must’ve been fourteen or fifteen, around that. We had a go at playing ice hockey, Dublin rules, which means none at all. And yes, my God, the bruises were majestic.”

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