Page 142 of Bonded in Death

“Quite right.” Summerset nodded. “You’re quite right. We’re not victims, Lieutenant. We’re not marks.”

“We’re weapons,” Marjorie finished. “Use us.”

Regulations and logic pushed her in one direction. Instinct pushed her in the other. If she’d put more weight on instinct than logic, procedure, Potter would be in custody.

Going with instinct, she turned to Roarke. “Can you set them up in the comp lab?”

“I can.”

“Get something to eat. Lay off the wine. Cyril, Summerset, on the house, west side. Entire west side. Marjorie, Ivanna, the house, east. Iris, house, central. Ivan, Harry, vehicle.

“Start with the most probable, then work back. Townhomes, warehouses.” She looked at Harry. “Top sedans, all-terrains. He needed time to set up, establish himself, learn the city. Go back eighteen months. Two years if nothing hits. He couldn’t wait longer than that to start.”

“Yes, you know him,” Marjorie murmured.

“He had to use private transportation to smuggle the weapons to New York.”

She spared Summerset a glance. “I’m aware.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I want results as they come. Go, eat dinner. Whatever the hell kotleta po something is.”

“Ukrainian,” Summerset said, and rose.

“I’ll have the lab set up for you when you’re done,” Roarke told themas they made their way out. “You made the right choice,” he said to Eve.

“It’ll keep them occupied anyway.”

“Marjorie made a solid case.”

“Okay, yeah.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I don’t want them to feel like victims.” She dropped her hands. “And I sure as hell don’t want them to be victims.”

“You need food, and we’ll get started.”

“I don’t want Ukrainian. I want pizza. I should get pizza. I’ve been shot.”

“Oh, again now you’ve been ‘shot,’ not ‘at.’”

“You made such a big deal out of it, I should be able to use it awhile.”

“Then rather than sitting at your command center with a slice in one hand while you work, you’ll sit at the table and eat. Since you’ve been shot.”

“That’s the petard deal again.”

He kissed her cheek and said, “Boom.”

But it would give her time to think, and time for her own search to push out some results.

She fed the cat while he got the pizza. Then sat with a slice and a Pepsi.

“I need successful, high-end smugglers who have good private transpo, connections in Britain and New York, and a rep for keeping their mouths shut.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Financials—”

“Ah.” Lifting a finger, he glanced up. “I hear music.”

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