“Is that before or after I stun him unconscious?”
Now he shrugged. “However it works, Dallas. You’re both targets.”
“Cops are always targets.”
“They’re not always targets of a contract killer with over four hundred kills under his belt. He gets lucky, manages to snatch one of you, we’ll know where you are.”
She resisted, barely, stepping back when Feeney took the trackers out of the pocket of his rumpled suit jacket.
“Sir, you can order me to wear one, and I’ll follow orders. I can’t order Roarke to do the same.”
“Convince him.” With that advice, Whitney walked out, left her with Feeney.
“This is just bullshit.”
“No bullshit. A little insulting, I get that, but it ain’t bullshit, Dallas.” He eased a hip onto the corner of her desk. “I spent a lot of time working with the commander on this today, getting intel and data, supposition, speculation. This son of a bitch knows how to slink into holes. He knows how to blend into the shadows, sink the blade in, and slide into a hole.”
“I know that, just like I know this is different.”
“Because it’s you?”
“Because it’s personal. When it’s personal, you make mistakes.”
He gave her a long look. “Damn right.”
Smacked right back at her, she realized. She’d served it up for him.
“Lose the jacket. You got anything on under the shirt?”
“What do you mean, do I have anything on under the shirt? Where are you putting that damn thing?”
He poked her under her right arm about an inch out from the armpit.
She took off the jacket, but just shoved up the short sleeve of the T-shirt.
A tremendous relief for both of them.
“It’s thin, and it’s pliable, and it’ll blend right in with the flesh patch.”
Eve stared up at the ceiling when he picked his spot, got to work.
“It’ll hold up to fluids—sweat, swimming, shower. Heat, cold. Try to peel it off, it’ll take some skin with it. So don’t do that. I’ve got a solution that removes it. Best we got, ’cause it’s the best there is. Guess who makes them?”
She didn’t have to. But knowing she wore a Roarke Industries product didn’t make it easier to swallow.
Lips pursed, he checked the seal, then pulled out his ’link.
“See, there you are.”
She frowned at the blinking red blip on his screen. When he tapped it, the screen showed Cop Central and the location of her office.
“You drive uptown, it’ll read you. You hop a shuttle, it’ll read you. End up in fricking China? It’ll fricking read you. The boy’s a fricking genius.”
“I’ll be sure to tell him that when he kicks my ass for trying to stick one of these on him.”
“Jesus, Dallas, just pull out some wife shit.”
“What wife shit?”
“How you know he’s smarter and stronger, and whatever other crap you need to toss in, but how you’re worried, how worrying messes you up. Shit like that, so he does it because he’s worried, and guilty, because you’re worried. Just wife shit.”
It fascinated. “How do you know wife shit?”
“Because I’ve had one more’n half my life, for Christ’s sake. Sheila doesn’t pull out the wife shit regular, and that’s why it works. Every goddamn time.”
Wife shit, Eve considered. It seemed like, maybe, it could run parallel with the Marriage Rules if she stretched it just enough.
“If it doesn’t work, I’m calling you in. You’re probably better at it.”
“Might be.” He handed her the box with the second tracker. “Instructions’re with it, but he’ll know how it works. Hell, he made it. Get it on him.” Feeney headed for the door.
“Hold on. If there’s wife shit, there’s husband shit. 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?”