Calculated in Death

  The buzz of voices and varied languages, the movement and pace typified New York to Eve.

  But right now she wished they’d all just get the hell out of the way so she didn’t have to weave through them.

  “I’m going to do another run at the WIN Group. Then I’m going to my home office, see what I can put together,” she told Peabody. “We’re going to push at Arnold and Parzarri tomorrow, as soon as they’re back. It’s one of them, one of the WIN Group, and one of the four dicks we talked to today. Or two of the four. We’ll whittle it down. If we can pin any one of them, we’ve got all of them.”

  She heard the faint whine, felt the pressure thump into her back, just between her shoulder blades. Instinct kicked in, had her driving at Peabody and knocking her partner to the ground.

  “What the—”

  “Stunner!” Eve rolled, coming up with her weapon as she surged to her feet. Through the crowds—New Yorkers who barely flicked a lash, tourists who stopped to gape, she spotted the big man—six four, two-fifty, Caucasian, ski cap, sunshades, black scarf and coat—execute a quick pivot and run.

  “Move!” she shouted to Peabody and sprinted off in pursuit. Forced to dodge and weave—and leap over the pedestrians the man mowed down like bowling pins—she lost some ground. She saw him charge up the stair access of the High Line. For a big man he moved fast and well—athletically, she thought as she bore down and bolted up after him.

  People strolled, sat on benches, took personal vids—while others stumbled back off the pebbled trail as her quarry cut through them. She ignored the shouts, the curses, long jumped over a planting to cut his lead. Her lungs burned, but she told herself she was gaining ground.

  With barely a hitch in his stride, he snatched a toddler off the ground, coldcocked its father with an elbow to the jaw, and threw the shrieking kid through the air like an arena ball with limbs.

  With no choice, Eve cut left, trampling native grasses, and set to receive.

  The force of the kid’s body knocked her up, back. Knocked her flat and knocked her hard. The kid’s skull rammed like a hurled rock into her chest. She felt her bones sing, and her burning lungs expelled what air she had left. Desperately she tried to suck in oxygen, and her throat wheezed and burned from the effort.

  The toddler’s galloping heart thwacked against her—even that hurt, but it assured her he’d lived through the flight and landing. She had a moment to think at least the impact had knocked the air out of the kid, too, as the shrieking stopped. But with a mighty gasp, the child let out a scream so sharp she wondered the air around them didn’t split in two.

  Her ears rang in a chorus of crazed church bells.

  “It’s okay, you’re okay.” Panting, Peabody lifted the kid—its sex undetermined in its bright red hat and coat. “You’re just fine now, little man. Just fine.”

  With the pressure somewhat relieved with the lack of the kid’s weight, Eve wheezed in air. “How do you know it’s a male?”

  Peabody patted the kid as she crouched down to Eve. “Are you okay? How bad are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know. Not bad.” Unless she counted the throbbing in her chest where the kid hit, in her ass where she’d hit, in her head where it had slammed, and some singing in her just healed shoulder. “Fucker.”

  Peabody winced, straightened to turn toward the hysterical woman running toward her.

  “My baby! My baby! Chuckie!”

  The father, eyes glazed, face white but for dribbles of blood, staggered after her as the crowd moved in.

  “He’s fine. Just fine. Hey, Chuckie, here’s your mama. Everybody move back!” Peabody ordered.

  Mother and son clung to each other, sobbing while Eve pushed herself up. The world did a little shimmer and dance, then righted.

  “Move back, please!” Peabody repeated, and took the father’s arm. “Sir, you need to sit down a minute.”

  “What happened? What happened?”

  “I’m going to call the medicals. Please, just sit down here. Ma’am, I want you and Chuckie to sit right there. I’ll call it in,” she told Eve. “You oughta sit down, too.”

  “I’m okay. Just knocked the wind out of me.”

  “You caught him.” The mother turned her tear-streaked face to Eve. “You caught him. You saved my baby.”

  “Okay, let’s—”

  And she had the wind knocked out of her again as the woman grabbed her, digging the kid’s feet into her groin in the desperately grateful embrace.

  The singing in her shoulder became an anthem.

  “Peabody.”

  “Ma’am.” Peabody shifted her tone to croon as she peeled the woman off Eve. “I want you to sit right here. You and your family. I’m going to need to get some information, okay?”

  Eve stepped out of the trampled grass, gritted her teeth against the twinges in her ass, her shoulder.

  Fucker, she thought again, scanning the High Line.

  He was long gone.

  • • •

  What the hell,” Peabody managed when they’d finally turned the family and the situation over to uniforms and MTs.

  “Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch stunned me in the back. Fucking coward asshole bastard.”

  “He stunned you? How did—your magic coat!”

  “Yeah.” Eve rubbed a hand over the leather. “It definitely works. I felt the impact, like a thump on the back, a slight burn. Milder and slighter, let me tell you, than you get with standard vests. I caught the whine of it. He had you zeroed in next.”

  “So you tackled me. Thanks for that. My coat’s not magic.”

  “Bastard could move. Really move. He went up those stairs like they were a glide. I couldn’t fire, not with all those damn people swarming everywhere, but I was gaining on him. A little.”

  “I couldn’t keep up with either of you, but I was trying to get some backup while I trailed you. Then, Jesus, all I saw was that kid flying through the air.”

  “He didn’t even hesitate. Barely changed his stride. Hit the father—elbow to jaw, grabbed up the kid and hurled him.”

  “You made a hell of a catch.”

  “Yeah.” She rubbed her chest where the kid had slammed into her. “Fucker,” she repeated.

  “Chuckie’s going to grow up on the story of the cop who caught him on the High Line, for a game-winning TD.”

  “He also has to live with the name Chuckie for—that’s it! That’s how he moved. Football or Arena Ball. Like a freaking running back. Fast, nimble, hard. I bet he’s put some time in on the field. Goddamn semi-pro.”

  “I didn’t get a good look at him.”

  “Hat, sunshades, scarf—I didn’t get a good look at his face. But his build, his shape. It’s something.” And now she’d run with it. “Go on and get to those interviews. I want to hit the WIN Group again, then try to find this asshole.”

  “You took a hard hit, Dallas.”

  “And I won’t forget it.”

  • • •

  She didn’t limp into the WIN offices, but that was pride. She wanted to go home, soak her aching body in a hot tub of swirling jets, but had to push on this angle.

  That was the job.

  Even as she stepped—gingerly—off the elevator, Robinson Newton turned from the reception desk. His eyes widened when he saw her, but before she could judge if the look of stunned surprise equaled guilt, he rushed forward.

  “Lieutenant Dallas! I need to shake your hand.”

  “Okay.”

  “It was amazing! Amazing what you did,” he said as he pumped her hand and made her abused body weep.

  “What?”

  “Chuckie. You caught him right out of the air, like a high fly. I just—”

  “How do you know?” She shifted her feet to a plant, laid a hand on the butt of her weapon.

  ?
??It’s all over the screen, the Internet. I’ve already watched it a half a dozen times. Are you all right? It looked like you went down pretty hard.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Amazing. Just amazing. That little boy . . . Who would do something like that? He’s not even two.”

  “Did they get a shot of the guy who threw him?”

  “Not that I’ve seen. There are a couple of different angles where people caught the catch, and one that’s from some security angle I think. I’ve never seen anything like it. You should come sit down, let me get you something. Coffee, some water. Some champagne.”

  “Thanks all the same. I just want a quick word. Are your partners here?”

  “Yeah, we’re about to head over to the new building. It’s cleared, and we’re meeting the designer about a couple details. Come on back, and I’ll get them. The reports weren’t clear, just that you were chasing this man, and he injured some pedestrians, then tossed that little boy. What did he do, I mean before that?”

  “Killed Marta Dickenson.”

  Newton stopped, eyes wide again. “Oh my God. Who is he? Why did he kill her? Did you catch him?”

  “If I could speak with all three of you?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. It’s so . . . so everything.” He led her into the little conference room. “Have a seat. Give me just a minute.”

  She stood as she’d already discovered during the drive over that sitting wasn’t her friend.

  Jake came in first, moving fast, face wreathed in smiles. “Superwoman! Sign her up! Mega-maniac catch. We were all, ‘Man! We know her.’ You caught the kid when you were chasing a murderer. It was like third and goal.”

  “They said the little boy’s just fine,” Whitestone put in. “Just some bumps and bruises. Were you really chasing the person who killed that woman?”

  “I believe so. He’s white, about six four and two-fifty. Broad shoulders, big hands. Square jaw.” Or so she believed with the very brief glance she’d managed. “Sound familiar?”

  “That’s pretty big.” Whitestone lifted his shoulders as he glanced at his partners. “I don’t know anybody, personally, who sounds like that.”

  “Do you remember seeing anyone who fits that description around your new building. Or this one?”

  “I don’t.” Whitestone eased a hip onto the table. “Rob said you were chasing him. Do you have a name, a photo?”

  “Not yet, but I will. I imagine you often go to the client rather than the client coming to you.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then I’ll ask all of you.” She nodded toward Newton and Ingersol. “Do you remember anyone who fits that description at or around either Alexander and Pope or Young-Biden?”

  “I—” Newton hesitated, scrubbed a hand over his hair. “I don’t honestly know. I don’t know if I’ve paid any attention. I don’t understand. Young-Biden’s a solid company, one of our biggest accounts. You don’t really believe they’re involved in a murder?”

  “I keep an open mind. How about you? You’re in charge of those accounts,” she asked Ingersol.

  “They’ve got some big guys, I guess. Security, maintenance. And Mr. Pope’s admin’s a tall one. Yeah, easy six four, but I don’t think he’s that big. Leaner than two-fifty. If this is about the murder, their audit’s really just a formality. An internal check, really. From my end, their finances are in very good order.”

  “From your end,” Eve repeated. “What if an audit turns up a problem, a discrepancy?”

  “I can’t imagine it will.” He sort of bounced to the friggie, took out a power drink. “If it did, it would depend on what kind of problem or discrepancy. Rob and Brad will tell you, audits sometimes, a lot of times, turn up a couple little things, a different interpretation of some tax code, or a payment or withdrawal coming out or going into the wrong pocket. That kind of thing’s easily resolved.”

  “What about something not so easily resolved?”

  He shook his head. “I can’t see it in these accounts. If something big was off, I’d have found it, or the accountant would, or the tax lawyers. Somebody.”

  “It’s why we coordinate,” Whitestone told her. “Why we work with their accountants, their legal department, and why they work with us. Checks and balances, and minimizing time, maximizing profit.”

  “All right.”

  “We think it might be corporate espionage.” Whitestone spread his hands as Newton sighed at him. “That’s what we’ve been talking about since we heard about the break-in at Brewer’s,” he insisted. “It sounds like somebody hired somebody to access all those files, and maybe the Dickenson woman was part of it. I know she’s dead, and that’s terrible. But we’ve been told several files were taken. It sounds like a big operation looking to access and analyze data, trying to undermine competitors.”

  “That’s a theory.”

  “But not yours,” Whitestone said.

  “No, not mine. Just taking the two companies I asked you about, they’re not in the same businesses or areas. They’re not competitors. They don’t have anything in common, except you and Brewer. So . . . Thanks for your time.”

  She’d done what she needed to do, Eve thought—and did limp a little once she got down to the lobby. She’d planted seeds of doubt and unease, at least in the mind of the guilty.

  And now she was going home, soaking her aching ass.

  • • •

  She bore down again as she maneuvered her body out of the car at the base of the steps of home. Just had to get by Dr. Doom, up the stairs, into the tub. A solid soak would do the trick.

  Breathing carefully, she stepped inside.

  Summerset scanned her, top to toe. “I suppose it couldn’t last forever.”

  “What?” Just had to get up the stairs that, right that minute, looked like the towering side of an alp.

  “Getting through the day without injury.”

  “Who says I’m injured?”

  “Slamming into the ground as you did would jar the body, bruise the points of impact.”

  She imagined that was his delicate way of referring to her ass, but she still didn’t like it. When the cat wound his pudgy way through her legs, she realized she’d probably whimper out loud if she tried bending to pet him.

  “There was a lot of grass.”

  “Regardless. Oh, don’t be an idiot,” he snapped at her. “Take the elevator.”

  “I’m fine. Just a little stiff.” She started for the steps, gave up. Crawling up them lost more pride points than just walking past him to the damn elevator.

  “I assume you refused any medical attention. You want ice and heat, on and off. And a blocker.”

  He was probably right, but she wanted that damn tub like she wanted to breathe. “I’m fine,” she repeated.

  “You’re young, fit, quick, and have excellent reflexes,” he said as she walked to the elevator. “Because of that a child is being pampered and spoiled by his parents right now instead of lying in a hospital. Or worse. Take a blocker. He’ll only make you when he gets home, and he’s on his way.”

  Summerset held out a little blue pill. “Take it now, and I can tell him you did.”

  Simpler to just take it, she decided, because he was right again. Roarke would shove one down her throat if she didn’t. And that was stupid all around.

  “Fine.” She took it, swallowed it.

  “Ice,” he repeated.

  “I don’t want ice unless it’s in a really big drink.” She stepped into the elevator.

  “Master bedroom,” Summerset ordered before she could do so herself.

  So she just closed her eyes, leaned against the wall, and let it take her where she wanted to go.

  She’d been hurt worse, she reminded herself. A hell of a lot worse. Despite that dubious qualifier, she felt as if every muscle, bon
e, and tendon in her body had been pulled, knocked, and strained. The blocker would help, for now, but it wouldn’t help the aches and stiffness tomorrow, and they’d be a distraction, an annoyance. They’d just be in her way.

  So she’d deal with them.

  When she stepped out into the bedroom, heard the elevator door whisk closed behind her, she allowed herself a long, heartfelt, moaning sigh.

  And that was enough self-indulgence.

  She eased out of her coat, blessing it for its stun-proof lining. But at the moment it felt impossibly heavy. She started to pull off her jacket, realized when her shoulder pinged that sometime during the dash, leap, twist, catch, and fall, she’d wrenched it good and proper, and it had barely healed from a much nastier injury during a life-and-death struggle with Isaac McQueen a few weeks before.

  She fumbled with her weapon harness, carefully slipped it off.

  And Roarke walked into the room.

  He studied her carefully, nodded. “Nice catch,” he said.

  SHE’D EXPECTED WORRY, CONCERN, STROKING and soothing, so his matter-of-fact comment threw her off balance.

  Probably his devious plan, she decided, to trick her into going to a health center.

  “Thanks. It was an unexpected play.”

  “At the least. How bad is it?”

  “Not very. I took a blocker.”

  “So I heard. Well, let’s have a look.”

  Now she smiled. “You just want to get me naked.”

  “My life’s work,” he said as he walked to her. He could see in her eyes it was more than “not very.” “As it is, I’ll tend to that myself.” He started to draw her sweater up and off, heard her hiss of pain.

  “Okay, ouch. Just a second.” She pressed her hand on her shoulder, trying to re-angle, decrease the twinge.

  She saw the change in his eyes, that flash of ice blue heat, and knew he thought—as she did—of McQueen.