Page 8 of Bonded in Death

“No. That’s a deal-breaker.”

She kissed him again, then he watched his long-legged, lanky cop walk away to hunt a killer.

In the car, she programmed more coffee from the in-dash AC, then drove across town. One advantage of driving across Manhattan at not quite five in the morning? Barely any traffic. No hawking ad blimps overhead, advantage two, she decided.

She spotted a trio of street LCs hanging in for one more john or jane before calling it a night. She imagined when they did, they’d hike in their tiny skirts and mile-high heels to the all-night deli a block away for some fake coffee, a bagel and schmear.

Along her way she saw a quartet of twenty-somethings that had obviously put in a full night clubbing. Their voices, laughter—more than a little drunk—carried through her open car windows.

A café for them, she decided. Something with pricier fake coffee—most likely flavored—omelets from egg substitute, sides of pretend bacon that had never been part of a pig.

She drank some of her very real Roarke coffee with gratitude.

The towers and lofty homes of the Upper East took over. She could hear the whoosh of cars on the FDR, but those tucked inside their minor palaces wouldn’t.

A few lights glimmered here and there. Early risers—she sure as hell had married one of those—insomniacs, maybe a light left on for someone coming home late.

So many lives, she thought, in so many places, stacked, spread, scattered.

And someone was always taking one, ending one.

For so many reasons.

She guided her DLE to the underpass, where the traffic above came in a muffled roar.

She frowned when she saw the pair of uniforms beside the long, shining black stretch limo.

Unexpected, she admitted.

She got out, turned on her recorder, flipped up her badge.

She got out her field kit before walking toward the limo.

“Lieutenant Dallas, sir.”

The cop on the left, male, Black, early forties, had a mirror shine on his hard shoes. He stepped slightly to the side.

“Officer Mitgy. My partner, Officer Blane.”

Blane, female, white, about a decade younger than her partner, just nodded.

“We’ve got the nine-one-one caller in the patrol car,” Mitgy continued. “He states he spotted the vehicle, and curious, knocked on the driver’s side door, then opened it. Upon seeing the body in the back, called it in. He admits he waited in hopes there might be a reward.”

“He’s a little stoned, Lieutenant,” Blane put it.

“He appears mildly impaired,” Mitgy corrected. “We responded at zero-four-ten. Took the caller’s statement, then opened the rear door of the vehicle and determined, visually, he is deceased.”

“And has your card in his hand.”

Eve frowned at Blane. “My card?”

“Lieutenant Eve Dallas. Homicide. NYPSD. Cop Central. Your badge and ’link numbers.”

“That’s correct. We determined something was printed on the back of said card, but would have disturbed the body by removing it to read fully.”

“‘Here lies the dead Wasp,’” Blane said. “There’s more after that, but we couldn’t be sure what.”

“All right, let’s have a look.”

---