Page 9 of Treachery in Death

She glanced at her wrist unit, swore a little. She was already seriously late. According to the marriage rules, she needed to contact Roarke, give him her ETA.

Even as she turned to her desk ’link, it signaled.

“Homicide. Dallas.”

“Lieutenant.” Mrs. Ochi came on-screen. “I’m sorry to interrupt your evening, but I wanted to know if you’ve ... if you have any news for me.”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Ochi. I was just about to contact you. We have all three of them. We have confessions. We have them behind bars now, and the prosecuting attorney is confident he’ll get a conviction that will keep them there for a very long time.”

“You caught them.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Those fierce green eyes filled with tears before Mrs. Ochi put her hands over her face. “Thank you.” She began to sob, to rock. “Thank you.”

Eve let her weep, and when the woman’s son and daughter came on-screen, flanking her, holding her, Eve answered their questions.

By the time she was done, her mind was focused on completing the work—and not on the marriage rules. When she’d wrapped it up, she walked out, through the bullpen where Peabody hunched, intent over the work.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, cha,” Peabody muttered.

McNab would have to play bad cop by himself for a while, Eve thought as she started out—then wished to God she hadn’t had the thought. On the heel of it, she remembered she hadn’t called home.

“Shit.” She reached for her pocket ’link.

“LT!” Detective Carmichael hustled after her. “Santiago and I are working a floater. I wanted to run a couple of the angles by you.”

“Walk and talk, I’m heading out.”

She listened, questioned, considered, taking the glides down rather than the elevator to give her detective more time. They paused on a level, with Carmichael tugging her ear.

“Are we cleared for the overtime, to move on this tonight?”

“I’ll clear it. Push it.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“How’s it working out with you and the new guy?”

“Santiago’s okay. Got a good nose. We’re getting a rhythm on.”

“Good to know. Good hunting, Carmichael.”

Eve took the elevator the rest of the way to the garage, thinking of Carmichael’s floater, the angles, authorizing the OT.

She crawled through traffic awhile, played a little game of outwit the other drivers by changing routes a couple times. By the time she remembered the marriage rules again, she was nearly home.

No point now, she decided. She’d just . . . make it up to Roarke. He’d have worked while waiting for her, she thought, so now they could have a nice dinner together. She’d even program it herself—one of those fussy, fancy deals he liked—open a bottle of wine.

Relax, hang. Maybe she’d suggest they watch one of those old vids he liked. A very married evening at home, she thought, followed by some very married sex.

No murder, no mayhem, no work, no pressure. Just the two of them. Hell, she might even dig out one of those sexy, seduce-your-partner get-ups, just to top it off.

She could program some music—go full-out romance.

Pleased with the plan, she zipped through the gates of home. Her mood throttled up another notch or two as she watched the lights shine in the multitude of windows in the gorgeous stone house. They could eat outside, she decided, on one of the terraces. She looked up as she drove, considering the towers and turrets. Maybe the rooftop terrace with its little pool and sweeping view of the city.

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