Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,44

What is it?”

Feeney merely smiled. “Figure it out.”

A puzzle for later, she decided, and, lifting her arm, looked at the tracker, felt the tracker with her finger. Even eyeballing it, rubbing her finger over it, she couldn’t really see it, barely felt it.

Okay, a fricking genius.

Deciding to ignore what she couldn’t change, she sat down to write up her report.

9

While Eve Finished her work at Central, Summerset did his marketing. He’d completed his other errands in good time, but still ran behind.

He’d spent most of his morning—previously earmarked for errands—at home, speaking with some contacts regarding Cobbe. Between errands, he’d had lunch with Ivanna at her apartment to ensure privacy for the information exchanged.

He used a car and driver, because Roarke had insisted—but still walked to and from some of his preferred shops. He had his routine, after all.

Though he realized his appreciation for routine largely stemmed from the carnage and chaos he’d lived with, and through, during the Urbans, it didn’t make routine less gratifying.

He could admit the lieutenant often upended routine, but he’d learned to compensate. He considering maintaining order and calm, particularly in times of chaos, not only his duty but his gift.

He bought strawberries—on the small side, but ruby red and perfectly sweet. Though it wasn’t his usual baking day, he decided he’d make a shortcake when he got home. As the day was as perfect as the berries, he enjoyed strolling along the outdoor stalls of the market, visiting the merchants and growers, having easy conversations.

He bought flowers that appealed to his eye, sampled some cheese—sharp as a blade—and bought a small round, though the cost hurt his practical heart.

He stopped by the fishmonger, eyed the salmon.

“And how are you today, Mr. Summerset?”

“Very well, and you, Mr. Tilly?”

“Fine as this day in May.” Tilly, round in his big white apron, gestured at the salmon. “For your people or your cat?”

“The head of the house, of course.”

“That’d be the cat.” Tilly winked. “How’s your Sir Galahad?”

“Well, too. And your ladies?”

Since Tilly’s ladies were a pair of Persian cats, he and Summerset shared cat stories in the spring breeze before Summerset bought Galahad’s salmon, and moved on.

He’d known since the berries that he’d picked up a shadow. He had to give Cobbe credit, as he’d yet to spot him. But he felt him—or whoever Cobbe had sent for the task.

Intrigued, he spent more time at the open-air market than intended, wandering, weaving, backtracking.

He never spotted the shadow. When the feeling passed, he called for the car.

On the drive home, he contacted Roarke.

“I gathered some information that may be helpful,” he began. “And I picked up a tail in the marketplace.”

“Where are you?”

“In the car, on the way home. You’ve no worries here. He never got close enough for me to make him, but he was there. Unless, of course, you put a shadow on me and I mistook.”

“I didn’t, no, and don’t tempt me.”

“And where are you?”

“An Didean. I have another stop to make when I’m done here. I’m likely to be a bit late. Stay at home once you’re there, will you?”

“I’ve no plans for otherwise. Have a care, boy. He’s better than I assumed.”

“I’ll see you at home.”

Clicking off, Roarke continued his walk-through. Workers loaded in more furniture. Several instructors busily set up their class areas to their liking.

The air smelled fresh, clean. Did it smell hopeful, or was that just his need for it? In a matter of days, it would be filled with youth, noise, movement.

He had a meeting with key staff in short order, but found himself going up the stairs, wandering the dorms, and up all the way to the rooftop garden with its beds ready for students to plant.

He sat on a bench with the city all around, the sky as blue as a man could wish. And the memorial for the girls lost long, long before the school had been a glimmer in his mind and heart shining in the sun.

He might’ve been lost like them if Cobbe had had his way. No doubt he’d be dead and done if he hadn’t been quick enough to get clear or had mates around him. No doubt at all, Roarke thought now, Cobbe would have put him in the ground all those years ago if he’d have managed it.

The old man would’ve done the same, Roarke considered, unless he’d been of some use to him. But he’d had nimble fingers for picking pockets, and that had spared him. Not that it