Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,67
tee, a jacket, boots.
Since Roarke hadn’t returned by the time she’d put herself together, and the cat now sat, awake and staring, she handled breakfast.
While Galahad devoured his salmon, she programmed more coffee.
She thought of pancakes, deemed them too heavy, opted for omelets. And since she held the controls, no weird-ass vegetables in hers.
Then, on a flash of inspiration, she ordered the choices sent to her office kitchen.
As the sun broke the dark, she headed to her office, opened the terrace doors. Cool, yeah, but not cold, she decided.
She put the meal, under their warming lids, on the table, poured herself more coffee, and moved to the adjoining door, where Roarke held a holo-conference with six people in business suits.
Staying out of range, she gestured to her office, then left him to it.
At her command center, she pulled up the results from her autosearch. She now had sixteen salons in Dublin that fit her criteria, and an even fifty in New York.
Including, she noted, Trina’s.
Manicured hands, according to the LC. And the upscale skin junk. He’d need one of those all-purpose type places. Where people, for reasons she’d never understand, could choose to spend an entire day of their life.
She adjusted the criteria, ordered another search.
While it ran, she checked updates. The numbers on rentals or purchases of vans, trucks, A-Ts looked daunting, but they’d cut that down by end of day.
Missing persons. Not much likelihood there. So far, anyway.
The limo driver, however, there was the gold.
She glanced up as Roarke came in.
“We’ve got his shuttle. He came in from Brussels, private, and we’ve got the name of the pilot, the shuttle company, the works. We’ll hit those this morning.”
“That’s good work.”
“Too late for more interviews after the limo driver, but she had the data. I’ve adjusted criteria for the salons to the full torture opportunities. It’s coming in now. Yes! Down to eleven in Dublin, forty-two in New York.”
“An early start for you.”
“Yeah, yeah, but I didn’t buy a continent. Did you?”
“A deal’s been struck on the small piece.” He glanced at the table, the open doors, the rise of the sun. “It’s a lovely idea, this.”
“I thought so. Let’s go for it.”
When she rose, he waited for her, then just wrapped his arms around her. “You didn’t go back to sleep.”
“I got in a workout instead. Revved me up.”
“So I see.” When he ran his hands down her arms to her wrists, he cocked his head, narrowed his eyes.
She stepped back, flicked her wrists. The blades shot out from under her sleeves.
“And.” She flipped back her jacket, revealing not just her usual weapon and harness, but the mini blaster on her hip.
He smiled, but it wasn’t humor she saw. She saw relief.
“He won’t hurt you through me.”
“I believe you.”
“Good.” She retracted the blades. “Let’s eat.”
He poured more coffee for both of them, brushed a hand down her hair, then sat.
“Thanks,” he said as he removed the warming lids. “For arming yourself for war, and for breakfast.”
“No problem. As you’re officially consulting on this case, I’m going to go ahead and copy you on the reports and updates.”
“Appreciated. Why don’t I take your Dublin salons? I still have contacts there.”
“Plenty of cops in Dublin to make those rounds.”
“True enough.” He sampled his omelet. “But sometimes a less official question provides an easier opening. Give me an hour or two on it, then you can pass it off to the Garda, or this Abernathy.”
She considered. “It would be sweet, wouldn’t it, to hand Abernathy Cobbe’s Dublin salon. Oh, look here, I think you guys might’ve missed this angle. And how fucking easy it might’ve been to plant somebody there, have a whole buncha badges ready to swoop in when Cobbe strolled in for his goddamn hair boost.”
Roarke smiled as he ate. “Feeling competitive, are you?”
“I haven’t decided yet. But I’m not wrong.” She crunched into bacon, waved the rest of the strip. “Why didn’t they have this intel?”
“Apparently they never managed to find an LC fresh off the job who spotted his open travel kit.”
“I’m not saying we didn’t get lucky, because we did. But they’ve had years to get lucky.”
“Bureaucracy.” He shrugged. “And I assume territorial issues and battles. Add this is personal for Cobbe, so his emotions—such as they are—are clouding things. But overall? They’re not you. You’re not just good, not merely exceptional. You’re an extraordinary investigator.”
“That’s not—”
He held up a finger to stop her. “I’ve watched you over the years, Lieutenant, pick up a detail others