Calculated in Death (28 page)

“Any questions, problems, concerns, let me hear them now.”

“Can we list popcorn as an expense?” Baxter wanted to know.

“No, and no corn. I don’t want slippery fingers. Those of you on theater security or staff, head out now. Those of you going in as guests, give it twenty. Checks every fifteen.”

She scanned the room. “Let’s go catch a vid.”

Having Mavis along for the ride kept things light. Her
out there
took form in a cascade of shimmering blonde intersected with a multitude of thin purple braids that matched the color of her dress. Emerald green ribbon—the color of her shoes—twined around each braid. Beside her, Leonardo wore the emerald green in a long-jacketed tux with purple shirt and tie.

“I wish you could have some of this bubbly.”

“After,” Eve told her.

“You’re not even afraid.”

“Just that I might trip in these damn shoes.”

“Those shoes are magalicious, Dallas. We all look magalicious.”

“I might be sick.” Peabody, in vivid gold, pressed a hand to her stomach.

Leonardo took out a little silver box, opened it. “Peppermints. They help. The first time I did a red carpet, I
was
sick. Remember, Mavis?”

“Poor babydoll.” She cooed at him. “He barely made it to the john before he booted.”

“You’re not going to be sick.” McNab rubbed her back. “You’re going to have fun.”

He wore what Eve supposed could be called a tux, except every time he moved or the light hit the material, colors shimmered. An instant of red, an instant of blue, an instant of gold.

It made her a little dizzy.

She looked away, checked in with her team.

“Everyone’s in place. No sign of the suspect. Reineke reports the crowd at the barricades is bigger than expected.” Nearly there, she thought. “Mavis, Leonardo, you’re all right with getting out first?”

“No prob,” Mavis assured her.

“I just want you out, and out of the way.”

“Don’t worry.” Leonardo put his big arm around Mavis. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Oh, honey bear.”

“No kissy-face, we’re about to pull up. You mingle, and until this goes down I don’t want you too close to me.”

“We’re all good. You stay that way,” Mavis warned, and gave Eve a quick hug. “And you can follow my lead,” she told Peabody. “Well, Dallas’s for the op, but mine for the show. Remember?”

“Smile, but keep it easy and natural. Shoulders back, don’t slouch. It’s okay to wave. If I pose, oh God, shift my weight to my back foot. And looking-over-the-shoulder shots are usually flattering.”

“Nailed it in one.” Mavis patted Peabody’s arm. “Here we go. Catch this bastard quick, okay, so we can have some fun.”

The driver, one of Roarke’s personal security team, opened the door. The sea of sound rolled in. Shouts, calls, flashes from cheap home cams and vids.

Leonardo stepped out first, offered Mavis his hand. And when she slid out, the sea of sound crested. Despite the circumstances, despite the tension, it gave Eve a boost to hear the crowds shout out Mavis’s name.

“She’s kind of a sensation,” Eve observed. Then shifted modes. “Exiting vehicle now, Peabody to follow.”

At her nod, Roarke got out, offered Eve his hand. Another crest of sound, and a stunning galaxy of lights greeted her. Faces and flashes and the bright red river of carpet.

Even as Eve’s eyes tracked, searched out her man, the chants of her name, of Roarke’s began.

She noted the route followed Peabody’s intel, the river streaming straight, then spilling into an ocean of red. People in tuxedos and sharp suits, sparkling dresses, glittering jewels glided over it. Smiling, laughing, posing.

Clinton Frye wasn’t among them.

Yet.

“Lieutenant Dallas is another sensation,” Roarke commented.

“It’s weird. And a little creepy. On the move,” she added as they started up the red carpet.

It got weirder with the shouted questions, the mics stuck in her face, the effervescent enthusiasm of the media, and the half-wild energy of the people crowded against the barricades.

For what? she wondered. She walked these streets nearly every day, she’d probably—given the odds—busted at least one of the people out there cheering, calling, waving.

All this frantic excitement just to catch a glimpse of a cop? It made her embarrassed for New York.

When she whispered as much to Roarke, he laughed. Just laughed, then completed the embarrassment by kissing her.

And the crowd went wild.

“Cut that out!”

“I might resist,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips, “if you’d stop delighting me.”

“I’ll work on it.”

It was just part of the op, she told herself as reporters began to swarm. Just part of the trap.

Great night, looking forward to it, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, the dress is Leonardo. Whose shoes are they? They’re my shoes.

For some reason this brought on a trilling laugh from some slicked-up fashion reporter.

She walked what she now thought of as a gauntlet, talking, smiling, searching, scanning, listening to reports in her ear—no sign yet—keeping both Mavis and Peabody on her radar. Then Nadine, in a liquid skin of silver, and Mira in deep and flowing coral. Dennis Mira, looking bemused and befuddled. God, he was so cute. The commander looking commanding beside his regal, slightly scary wife.

She heard her name called, glanced, and watched Marlo, her hand linked with Matthew’s, hurry toward her.

“Dallas! You’re here. I kept obsessing you’d be chasing down some murderer instead of making it. It’s so good to see you both. We’re really looking forward to tonight, and tomorrow.”

“So are we.” Roarke held out a hand. “It’s good to see you, Matthew.”

“It’s great to be back in New York.”

As requests pounded out for photo ops, Marlo smoothly shifted position, slipped an arm around Eve’s waist.

Too close, Eve thought, then ordered herself to relax. With the sweep of blonde hair no one would mistake Marlo for her.

“We need to move inside,” Marlo murmured in her ear even as she struck another pose. “Even with the heaters, it’s cold out here, and they’ll keep us as long as we’ll stay.”

“Sounds good. And right on schedule.” Eve caught Peabody’s eye, signaled.

Of course that generated more greetings, more photos, a round of you-look-amazings.

“You’re getting cold,” Roarke commented, and in his easy, unstoppable way, guided them all into the theater.

The carpet continued. The crowd was smaller here, more exclusive, and the noise more subdued.

And there, she thought, was Sterling Alexander, looking smug as he sipped a cocktail and cornered Mason Roundtree, the director.

She caught glimpses of Biden, of Young-Sachs. Continued to track.

Alva Moonie, her housekeeper beside her, stood off from the main group and held both of Whitestone’s hands. Sympathy covered her face.

Across the lobby, Candida, in all but transparent white, held court with a gaggle of reporters.

“I wondered if they’d come,” Eve murmured to Roarke. “Whitestone, Newton and his fiancée.”

Roarke followed her direction. “It weighs on them. You can see it.”

“Why come here, with all this hype and hoopla?”

“Some need people, distractions, noise in grief. Others need solitude and silence. But both can offer solace,” he said as he watched Alva put her arms around Whitestone.

“I guess that’s true.”

Eve made her men, scattered throughout. Baxter, looking as though he’d been born in a tuxedo, chatted carelessly from all appearances with Carmichael who shined up very well.

But she saw the cop in their eyes, the alert in the set of their bodies.

She saw Feeney dragging at the knot of his tie. She wanted a quick word, but was intercepted by Julian Cross.

He caught her hands—looked at her with eyes not quite so blue, not quite so wicked as Roarke’s—then lifted them to his lips. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

He’d played the Irish accent well in the few outtakes she’d seen, but there was no trace of it now. “I wanted another chance to thank you for saving my life.”

“Nadine saved your life.”

“She did. She kept me from dying. And you figured out Joel killed K.T., tried to frame me, and would have killed me. More, doing that you gave me the courage to change my life. I’m sober, and I intend to stay sober.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

He bent to brush a kiss over her cheek, then looked at Roarke. “You’re a lucky man.”

“So I say myself. Sobriety looks good on you, Julian.”

“And feels good on me. Thank you,” he said again. “Both of you. I need to speak to Connie, and I know she’d like to see you both before tomorrow’s . . . celebration,” he said with a glint of his innate charm. “Mason’s going to make a little speech before we go in, unless you can sneak in first and avoid the speech. We’ll have more time to catch up at the after-party, and tomorrow.”

“Sometimes you do more than save a life,” Roarke said as Julian walked off. “You change them.”

“He changed his own.”

The noise level rose as drinks poured freely. Laughter rang out, kisses and air-kisses flowed.

She felt something, just a tingle at the base of her spine, started a casual turn. She heard the report in her ear seconds before she saw Frye. Deliberately she let her gaze pass over him, move off.

“I heard. I see.” Roarke touched fingertips to her arm.

“He’s wearing a security badge, so he may have access to those areas. Too many people in here. Better chance to take him quietly and without civilian injuries if we do it inside. I’m going in. He’ll follow. I’ve got men in there,” she reminded Roarke. “And I’m armed. That was the plan.”

“Understood. And you understand I’ll be coming in after him.”

“Just don’t rush it.”

“Baxter, take Alexander—quietly—into custody as soon as I’m through the theater doors. McNab, send the green to the feds re the operatives. Clean Sweep starts now.”

She gave Roarke a smile, strolled off toward the theater doors. Now when someone called her name, she ignored it or tossed a careless wave. She could feel his eyes on her, tracking her. Had to get closer, she knew. Couldn’t risk another miss like before, so he had to get close.

A stunner, a knife. Maybe both.

Calculating, she slipped through the doors and into the gilded palace of the theater.

She’d never stepped foot in it before, but she knew every inch, every exit, every corner.

She drew her weapon as she eased away from the doors, moved carefully to the left. She needed him to come through, all the way, move beyond a chance to duck out again.

Two of her men would, as soon as possible, move over to those doors to block them. They’d have him in a box.

She walked a few more steps, deliberately turned her back to the doors.

Other eyes were on him now, eyes she trusted. And she’d hear him. She’d feel him.

She did both as the door quietly opened.

Closer, she thought, listening to the voices in her ear, listening to her own gut. Just a little closer.

She turned, weapon drawn. His face didn’t change, but the hand holding the stunner jerked in shock.

“You may be able to get off a stream before I do, but believe me, if I miss, the other four cops in here won’t. You’re going to want to lower that weapon, Frye, or you’re going to get hit by multiple streams. It’ll hurt like a bitch.”

She saw his eyes dart left, right, saw his body shift, roll onto his toes.

“Nowhere to run,” she began. “It’s over.”

Even as she spoke, the door swung open. “Eve Dallas!” Candida, obviously drunk, stumbled in. “I’ve got something to say to you, bitch.”

Frye had fast hands to go with his fast feet. He grabbed Candida, swung her around, effectively blocking any shots, then launched her at Eve with the spin velocity.

A flailing fist slammed into her eye as the now screaming woman landed on her.

“You bitch!” Candida shrieked it, slapping, kicking. “You ripped my dress!”

Cursing, Eve shoved, pushed Candida into a heap then gained her feet. Streams blasted as Frye dodged and weaved through the theater. On another curse, Eve kicked off the damn shoes and sprinted after him.

Fast, she thought, but goddamn it, she’d be faster. Her right eye watered freely, blurring her vision and throbbing like a bad tooth.

He veered off from the exit as she or one of the others glanced a stream off his shoulder. He returned fire, wildly, leaped onto the stage like a receiver leaping for a long pass. She leaped right after him, set, fired.

This one hit him square in the back. He didn’t stumble so much as sway, didn’t jitter so much as shudder.

He swung around, weapon up, fear and fury on his face. Shouts of “Drop your weapon” rang out, her own joining them. But those angry eyes never left her face.

He couldn’t miss at this range, she thought. Neither could she. She thought:
What the hell
, prepared to fire, braced for the return hit.

Roarke flew across the stage, a panther on the spring. He hit Frye low, at the knees, sent them both shooting through the air, across the floor.

“Restraints!” Eve shouted, dashed toward Roarke. Before she could get to him, he’d pulled back, plowed in, slamming a fist into Frye’s face.

Twice.

“Okay, okay, okay. He’s done. Suspect is down.”

“LT.” Jenkinson tossed her restraints, wincing as he climbed onto the stage.

“You hurt? You hit?”

“Nah, just burned me some. I’m wearing gear. It still gives you a jolt.”

“I know. Sit down, get your breath. You, too,” she said to Roarke, but he was already sitting beside the dazed Frye.

When Frye tried to rise, Eve stuck her stunner in his face. “You’re done,” she repeated. “On your face. Roll over on your face, hands behind your back.”

When he groped at his pocket, Roarke jabbed him, not so lightly, in the side. “Looking for this, boy-o?” He held up a knife, let the light catch the blade. “I had it out of your pocket before you hit the bleeding ground. Put another hand on my wife, and it may find its way into you.”

The best Eve could spare was a warning stare and shake of her head.