to ask what the hell was the difference, but she saw the subtle difference. The tough look of the metal button fly, the thick belt loops.
“Shirt, not sweater. Not white or black. This.”
She frowned at it, noting the color mirrored the metal. Her frown deepened when he chose a black vest with a trio of thick metal hooks in lieu of buttons.
“Trust me,” he told her. “Instead of a jacket, the vest. It’ll show your weapon harness during interview. Mean, arrogant, fearless. And bloody intimidating.”
Last, he selected sturdy, mid-calf black boots with lacing that gave them a military look, and a black belt with a wide metal buckle.
“You’ll scare the crap out of them,” he promised.
Well, she’d asked for it, she reminded herself.
Once dressed, she took a look in the mirror. “Okay. Okay, you know your stuff.”
At her back, he laid his hands on her shoulder. “Go get ’em, Lieutenant.”
“Bet your fine Irish ass.”
“Take care of my cop—and her face.”
She gave him a nod in the mirror. “I’m on it.”
When she left, Roarke glanced back, and saw that while he’d been distracted, Galahad had made the most of it. He’d gained the table, and now enthusiastically licked the plates.
“I should call her back and have you arrested.”
With a quiet belch, the cat sat, and studiously cleaned the jam off his paws.
* * *
Once again, Eve—mostly—missed the morning traffic. Considering the raid the night before, she detoured to Jacko’s, loaded up on cinnamon buns. She’d sampled one on a previous investigation, knew their magnificence.
Because they were there, she added in Danishes.
Even with the stop, she got into Central with plenty of time to set up for the briefing. Before she moved into the conference room, she swung by Evidence, checked out what she needed.
And since cop coffee felt like an insult to the cinnamon buns, she hauled in pots of coffee from her office AC.
Jenkinson and his tie came in first. A horde, a flock? A shitload of multicolored butterflies swarmed over screaming blue.
“LT, Reineke stopped to get—” He broke off, sniffed the air like a hound on the hunt. “That’s real coffee. Sticky buns? Roarke’s coming to the briefing?”
“No.”
Jenkinson—fast on his feet—already had a mouthful of bun. “Sent ’em? Nice.”
“No, he didn’t send them.” It griped, sincerely. “He’s not the only one who can think of stuff.”
“We got the best LT in the history of LTs.” Very fast on his feet. “How’s Peabody?”
“She’s coming in unless I hear differently, so you can see for yourself.”
Reineke came in with a couple of vending machine coffees. Like his partner, he sniffed the air. He dumped the coffees in the recycler, hit the pot with one hand, the pile of buns with the other.
“Roarke’s the man!”
“I got the damn buns. I got the damn coffee. I’m the man.”
“The man,” Reineke said with his mouth full.
Baxter walked in with Trueheart, said, “Score! Where’s—”
“Ix-nay on the ork-ray,” Jenkinson warned.
“How will I ever break your diabolical code?” In disgust, Eve poured herself more coffee.
Others wandered in, had their Roarke comments and questions stifled as the piles of buns and pastries depleted.
Then attention—even for sticky buns—shifted as Peabody came in with McNab.
Slight limp, Eve noted because she favored the right knee, some NuSkin on facial cuts and scrapes, but all in all Peabody looked okay. Even a little flushed as fellow officers gave her high fives and fist bumps.
Trueheart poured her coffee, doctored it her way. McNab got her a chair, then pulled another over, lifted her bad leg onto it.
“Doc said it’d be good to keep it elevated when she’s sitting,” McNab explained.
“Fine.” And sitting would be what she’d do until the knee healed. But she’d hit her partner with that order in private. “Let’s settle down, get started. We’ve got a long one coming.”
During the shuffle, Whitney came in. He raised his eyebrows at what was left of the sticky buns and Danishes. “Are those Jacko’s? Roarke doesn’t miss a trick.”
Jenkinson cleared his throat. “We owe the glory of the sticky buns and the real, Commander, to the generosity of Lieutenant Kick-Ass Dallas. She’s the man.”
Applause followed.
“That’s enough sucking up. Put your own kick-asses in chairs.”
“Before you begin, Lieutenant—and let me add my thanks for the coffee and pastries—I’d like to say a word.”
Whitney took a moment to scan the room. “First, I want you to know that Chief Tibble would have been here himself this morning but he’s in East Washington attending a convention. He was, however, kept fully informed, and sends his congratulations