Treachery in Death

Twenty-Three

RENEE WALKED THROUGH CENTRAL TO TAKE care of business. She wanted a long, hot bath—with the oils she’d bought on her last trip to Italy. And one of her bottles of wine from the vineyard she’d invested in.

She could soak while she toasted Strong’s disgrace and probable imprisonment—and most important, most gratifyingly, the demise of Lieutenant Eve Dallas.

Sentimental bitch wore a wedding ring, she recalled. Interesting piece, unique design. That would be a perfect item to pass to the scapegoat she had in mind—a particularly violent chemi-head who would pawn it at the first opportunity.

It would be easy to pin Dallas’s murder on him, and Garnet’s.

Loose ends snipped, she thought as she got off the elevator on her floor. Better, she’d find a way to be the arrow that pointed the investigators to the goat. That would erase any lingering tinge from the Garnet/ Strong problem, and very likely give her a little boost toward those captain bars.

Really, things were working out even better than she planned.

She breezed through the night-security glow of the squad room, unlocked her office. She called for lights and went straight to the portrait.

“Screw you and everything you stand for.”

She lifted the frame, then spun around at the sound behind her.

Eve swiveled the chair around, smiled. “That’s not a nice way to talk to your father, Renee. Gosh, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“What are you doing in my office? My locked office? You have no right—”

“You’re fast on your feet. I’ll give you that. Faster than the dogs you sicced on me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Please, Renee, they rolled all over you. Marcell was crying for a deal before we had the cuffs on him, and Palmer wasn’t far behind. And even without that?” Eve reached out, tapped her recorder.

Renee’s voice filled the room, arranging for Eve’s death, for Lilah’s.

“Detective Strong’s fine, by the way. Freeman? Not really. He’s pondering his options from a cage right now, like the pitiful pair you ordered to kill me. So’re Armand, Bix, Manford, and at last count five more of your motley crew. You are so completely fucked.”

“You’re bluffing, or you wouldn’t be here alone. So I believe I’ll just contact—”

Eve drew her weapon, aimed it at the middle button of Renee’s power suit jacket. “You’re going to want to pull that piece out very slowly, then set it on the desk and step away. I know you’ve never terminated anyone. Never so much as fired that weapon in your bag or any other—at least not on record. I have, and trust me when I say I wouldn’t hesitate to put you on the ground.”

Renee threw the purse on the desk. “You think you’ve won this? You think I can’t fix this?”

“That’s right. I think I’ve won this. I think you can’t fix this.”

“You haven’t; and I will. It’s your head that’ll roll.”

Not panicked, Eve noted. Pissed. Hoping to give the temper another boost, Eve put a laugh on her face.

“Really? You tried for Strong twice, once with Bix, then with Freeman. Didn’t do so well, did you? Now you think you can take me?”

“She got lucky with Bix. He never misses.”

“He killed Keener—but Keener was a weak junkie. And Garnet. But Garnet was his partner and trusted him. I’d say that makes Bix lucky. They all trusted you, didn’t they, Renee? As far as any of their type can trust. Are you so sure Bix will do what you tell him when he’s looking at life in a concrete cage?”

“He’ll do exactly what I tell him, and say exactly what I tell him. That’s how you command men.”

“Yeah, it takes a lot of balls to tell a man like Bix to slit his own partner’s throat, to stick poison in a junkie’s arm.”

“It takes foresight, vision, brains to develop someone like Bix so he’ll do just that on command. None of your people would do for you what Bix has done, and will do, for me.”

“You’re right about that.”

“That makes you weak. Holding that weapon on me, that makes you weak, too.”

“Does it?”

“Have you got the balls, Dallas?” Renee slipped out of her heels. “Let’s really see who’s in charge here.”

“Are you serious?” Of all the responses, this was the last Eve expected. A shiny bubble of sheer joy rose up in her. “You want to dance with me?”

“Weak. And a coward.”

“Ow, insults. Sting. What the hell. I really want this, too.” Eve set her weapon down, shrugged off her jacket.

As she circled the desk, Renee lowered into a fighting stance.

“Hey.” Eve cocked her head, pointed. “Did you take lessons?”

“Since I was five. You’re going to bleed.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

She took her stance, and they circled each other. She let Renee come at her, blocked the kick, the follow-up, the backhand.

There was power there, she judged, and style, and skill. Renee wouldn’t go down easy; she wouldn’t go down quickly.

So much the better.

She kicked Renee’s fist aside, came in with a hard jab, had it repelled. And took a mid-body blow that burned her belly. The next kick caught her shoulder, zipped pain down her arm. She went with it, used the momentum in her spin, slammed her boot into Renee’s chest with a force that knocked her opponent back into a chair and down.

Fists ready, Eve leaped forward, but Renee jumped up, slammed a kick into Eve’s knee that shot her feet out from under her. She tasted blood now, told herself it woke her up, and when Renee poised to stomp her injured knee, Eve swept out her leg.

This time when her opponent fell there was a satisfying crunch as the table under her collapsed.

They both sprang to their feet, and at each other.

Now it was something like jubilation that shot up Eve’s arm as her fist rammed Renee’s face, and her blood drummed to the cry of pain and rage. She took a blow to her own face, one that had stars exploding in front of her eyes. Flying on them, she twisted, came in low to ram her elbow into Renee’s belly, jerked up her forearm to plant a backfist on Renee’s chin.

“You’re bleeding, bitch,” Eve told her, and caught Renee’s foot on the kick, shoved back.

Renee dropped, rolled, scissored her legs up, beat a double kick to Eve’s hip before gaining her feet.

Bloodlust. Eve felt it pulsing and pumping through her, all primal fury that was somehow a kind of twisted pleasure. Circling, spinning, a blow landed, another taken. Sweat stung her eyes, dripped down her back—and she saw it mixing with the blood smeared on Renee’s face.

Eve knew they were in the same place now, a place where winning was all and the taste of blood lay sweet on the tongue. A place, she knew, where that taste stirred a craving for more.

She told herself to end it, to step back over the line.

“You’re done,” she said. “This is done.”

“I say when it’s done!” Renee launched at her; Eve pivoted to meet the attack. They hit the door like a cannonball and spilled into the squad room in an intimate tangle of violence. They rolled, jabbing fists, hit the side of a desk with a crack like thunder.

Eve stopped the thumb aiming for her eye by gripping Renee’s wrist, twisting it. On a cry of pain, Renee grabbed Eve’s hair, nails gouging scalp, and yanked viciously.

More stars exploded in a field red as blood.

“Fuck me! Hair pulling? That’s it!” She wrenched Renee’s wrist back, reveled in the screech—and with her scalp screaming flipped Renee onto her back. “Pussy.” She balled her fist, drove it once, twice into Renee’s face, reared back for a third, but pulled up short when the grip on her hair dissolved, when the eyes staring into hers went glassy.

“I say when it’s done.” Eve swiped blood from her mouth. “And it’s done. Jesus Christ, it’s done.” She rolled off, sat on the floor, tried to slow the air wheezing into her burning lungs. “Peabody!”

“Sir!” Peabody stepped forward from the crowd of cops—and a particular civilian—who’d already moved into the squad room.

This time Eve swiped under her nose, then pressed it gingerly. Not broken, she determined, just bloody. “She’s yours.”

“Huh?”

“I’m the one whose ears are ringing, for God’s sake. I said she’s yours. Your collar. Take her.”

“But, Dallas, you—”

Though it hurt pretty much everywhere, she discovered, Eve pushed to her feet. She wondered if her injured knee had puffed to the size of a basketball, or just felt that way.

“Detective, I just gave you a directive. I expect you to follow it without any backtalk and arrest this individual who is a disgrace to her badge, her lineage, and her goddamn gender. Hair-puller,” Eve said in disgust, and nursed a hand over her tender scalp.

“Yes, sir.”

“One minute.” Eve crouched down, painfully, bent close to Renee’s face, and spoke for only the two of them. “You see that cop, Renee? The one who’s about to take you? She’s the reason. She’s the reason you’re down and you’re out. She’s more of a cop, more of a woman, more of a human being than you ever were. And she’s my partner.”

Eve straightened, with effort and with considerable discomfort. “Get her gone,” she told Peabody.

“With pleasure, Lieutenant. Renee Oberman,” she began as she bent to cuff the prisoner, “you’re under arrest.”

Peabody listed the charges as she dragged Renee to her feet. At Eve’s head jerk, McNab moved in, took Renee’s other arm. Peabody recited the Revised Miranda as they perp-walked her out.

“Lieutenant.”

Eve struggled not to wince as she came to attention. “Yes, sir, Commander.”

“It was unnecessary to engage in physical contact with the suspect, to break procedure and set aside your weapon, and do so when you clearly had the suspect under control.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Unnecessary,” he repeated, “but just. And I believe it was as satisfying to experience as it was to observe. I suggest you visit the infirmary and get cleaned up and treated. It will be my unfortunate duty to inform Commander Oberman of his daughter’s arrest.”

“Sir, as head of the investigative team, and partner to the arresting officer, I feel that should be my duty.”

“You know command better than that, Dallas. It’s mine to lift. You did well.” He turned, scanned the cops in the room. “You all did well.”

And shouldering his command, he walked out.

Roarke walked over, handed her her weapon and a towel. She didn’t know where the hell he’d come up with the towel, but it looked clean. She wiped some of the blood off her face.

“I’d kick your ass for putting your weapon down,” he murmured, “except as I said before, I’m fond of it. And because at the core, I agree with Whitney. Besides”—he took the towel, dabbed at her face himself—“I took fifty off the new guy.”

“What? Santiago?”

“I wagered him you’d bait her into a fight so you could pummel her a bit. He was the only taker.” He leaned down, softly, softly kissed her swollen mouth. “But he doesn’t know you as well as the rest. Yet.”

She might’ve smiled, but knew it would hurt. “Well, he’s the new guy. I’ve got to ...” She trailed off, noting the room was still full of cops. Thinking of the kiss she would’ve scowled, but that would hurt, too.

“What’re you all still doing here? Don’t you have homes? Dismissed.”

To her utter shock Baxter shifted to attention, snapped a salute, held it. “Lieutenant,” he said, and every cop in the room followed suit.

She forgot every ache, every pain, every bruise and cut. There wasn’t room with the pride.

“Good work. All of you. Good work.” She returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

As they filed out, Feeney walked to her. He laid a hand on her shoulder, and he nodded. “Not bad,” he said. “Not bad at all.”

When he walked off, it was with a strut in his step.

Eve let out a breath. “I have to sit down a minute.” She did, then lowered her head into her hands. “God. Oh, God.”

Hearing the tears in her voice, Roarke knelt. “You’re in pain. Baby, let me get you to the hospital.”

“It’s not that. Or yeah, it’s a little that. But it’s mostly . . .” She dropped her head on his shoulder, smearing blood on his beautifully cut jacket. “What they did. All of them. How they stood up. All of them. Knowing what I have in them. I can’t ... I don’t know how to say it.”

“You don’t have to. I think I know.”

“They’re everything she’s not. Everything she abused, raped, killed, exploited. They’re the reason I . . . not the reason I do it, but the reason I can.” She lifted her head, swiped at tears and blood. “You’ll buy that drink for the house?”

“I will, yes. Darling Eve.” He laid his lips on her cheek. “My cop.”

“Roarke.” Tears pressed and burned again. She let some go, just let them fall. She could let them fall with him. She gripped his lapel, transferred more blood as she looked in his eyes.

“I want to go home, okay? I just need to go home now. You can fix me up there. It’s not so bad. You can take me home and fix me up. Because at the end of the day you’re what does. You’re what fixes me up.”

“Eve.” He pressed his lips to her brow, held there a moment. Just held. “All right then. I’ll take you home, and I’ll fix you up.”

“Thanks.” When he helped her to her feet, she leaned against him. “You’re the reason, too. Why I can do it.”

“Then I’ll fix you up so you can do it another day.”

As they started out of the room, she hissed. “Shit! It is pretty bad. Still go-home-and-fix-me-up territory, but, Jesus, she could fight. At least until the hair-pulling incident.”

“You were holding back a little.”

She frowned. “Who says?”

“Who knows you?”

So she sighed, leaned on him again. “Maybe I held back a little, until—”

“The hair-pulling incident.”

“It was insulting, and really demeaned the moment.”

He laughed, and he took her weight. She hobbled to the elevator so he could take her home, fix her up. So she could do it all another day.