hand from his pocket. She saw the eyes, the baring of teeth, the hot rage.
She laid a hand on her weapon, shifted to block him.
The knife was out of his pocket before she could clear her weapon, and slicing out at her. She felt the sting of the tip across her forearm. Heard the weeping turn to high, terrified screams.
She said, “Goddamn it,” and kicked the assailant hard in the balls even as she yanked her weapon clear. “You son of a fucking bitch.”
Since he was curled on the floor, retching, he didn’t respond.
“Lieutenant. Jesus, Lieutenant, he cut you.”
“I know he cut me. I’m the one bleeding. Why is she screaming?” Eve demanded as she lowered, put a knee in the small of the retching man’s back, then restrained him. “Let me repeat: I’m the one bleeding.”
“He was going for her when you got in the way. Way it looks. Detective Manson,” he said, “Special Victims. The asshole on the floor is her ex, who paid her a visit last night, beat the crap out of her, raped her, and told her he’d cut her heart out if she left. He went out for brew, she left. He must’ve trailed her here or something. We’ll find out.”
“How the hell did he get a knife through?” As she asked, Manson used a pair of tweezers to pick it up off the floor.
“Christ, it’s one of those plastic deals from the Eatery. He sharpened it with something. I’d say he was waiting out here to go at her. In goddamn Cop Central. Crazy bastard.”
“Get him the hell in a cage. Make sure you charge him with assault with a deadly on a police officer.” She crouched down to push her face close to the knifer’s. “You can get life for that, asshole. Put in the other charges, and you’re done. You cost me a pretty nice jacket.”
“You need to go to the infirmary, sir.”
Eve looked down at the ripped sleeve, the blood. “Crap.”
Instead, she slipped into a restroom, ripped the sleeve off the jacket, and fashioned a quick field dressing. Then, with some regret as it had been a nice, serviceable jacket—shoved what was left of it in the recycler.
The steady pulse of pain from her arm joined the head throb. Home, she thought, as soon as she gave Whitney her report, she was going home, cleaning up, shutting down. Two hours’ sleep would do the trick.
At home.
At his desk when she walked in, Whitney held up a finger for silence as he finished reading a report. Eve stood where she was while behind his window a blimp lumbered through the sky with its flashing ad, a couple of shuttles zipped in a crisscrossing path, and a tram carried a payload of tourists.
Whitney tapped the index finger of his big hand on the screen, then shifted his eyes, dark, intense, to her.
“How were you injured?” he asked her.
“It’s just a scratch.”
“I asked how.”
“Sir. Some mope on the tenth level, east, lying in wait for his ex, who’d come in to SVU after he beat and raped her. He’d copped a plastic knife from the Eatery, sharpened it up. I got in the way. A Detective Manson has him in custody.”
“That’s not a proper dressing.”
“I’ll get one. I was on my way to give you my report, so—”
Again, he held up a finger, turned to his com to tag his admin. “Send a medic in here for the lieutenant. She has an injury, left forearm. Knife wound.”
“Sir, I really don’t need—”
“Report.”
“Sir.” Damn it.
She reviewed the facts, the steps taken, the various avenues of investigation addressed.
“You’ve yet to find any connection between the victims.”
“No, sir, we’ve found nothing that intersects them other than the killer.”
“And you believe both victims were killed by the same individual.”
“Detective Peabody and I have just completed first interviews with Winston Dudley and Sylvester Moriarity. I believe the result of those interviews opened another avenue of investigation. I consulted with Doctor Mira on the—”
She broke off at the knock on the door.
“Come,” Whitney ordered.
Eve eyed the medic with instinctive distrust. “Commander, if I could conclude before—”
“Sit down. You can give me the rest while he works on you.”
“Carver, sir,” the medic said cheerfully. “Let’s have a look-see.”
She didn’t care for the idea of a medic named Carver, but under direct orders sat.
“Good field dressing,” Carver told her as he removed it. “Nasty little slice. We’ll fix it up.”
Several sarcastic remarks came to mind, and she swallowed them as Carver began