In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

we come in, Sergeant, and speak to you?"
    "Sure, sure. Don't mind the mess. I was just making a sandwich the old-fashioned way."
    He stepped back, casual, easy. A good, smart cop, she thought later. That's why she missed it.
    He brought up the knife fast, a smooth, quick motion, aimed at her throat. She was a good, smart cop, too. She might have dodged it. It was something she'd never know for certain.
    Webster shoved her, hard enough to knock her off her feet, and the movement, the twist of his body put him in the path of the knife.
    She shouted something as the blood spurted. Something as Webster went down. And was already scrambling to her knees, already reaching for her weapon as Clooney sprinted across the room. If she'd fired without warning, fired into his back, she would have had him. The instinctive hesitation, the ingrained loyalty, cost her an instant.
    And he was out the window and clambering down the fire escape.
    She rushed to Webster. His breathing was short, shallow, and the blood was coming fast from the long slice that ran from his shoulder down across his chest.
    "Jesus, Jesus."
    "I'm okay. Go."
    "Shut up. Just shut up." She ripped out her communicator as she leaped to her feet and ran to the window. "Officer down. Officer down." She rattled off the address, scanning for Clooney. "Immediate medical assistance required this location. Officer down. Suspect fleeing on foot, heading west. Suspect is armed and dangerous. White male, sixty years."
    Even as she spoke, she was shrugging out of her jacket, tearing through the apartment for towels. "Five feet, ten inches, one hundred and eighty. Gray and blue. Subject is suspect on multiple homicides. Hold on, Webster, you stupid son of a bitch. You die on me, I'm going to be supremely pissed."
    "Sorry." He sucked in his breath as she ripped his shirt, pressed the folded towels over the wound. "Christ, it really hurts. What the hell kind of..." He bore down, fighting to stay conscious. "What the hell kind of knife was that?"
    "How the hell should I know? A big, sharp one."
    Too much blood, was all she could think. Too much blood, already soaking through the towels. It was bad. It was really bad.
    "They sew you up. You'll get a goddamn commendation out of this scratch. Then you'll be able to show it off to all your women and make them giddy."
    "Bullshit." He tried to smile, but he couldn't see her. The light was going gray. "He opened me up like a trout."
    "Shut up. I told you to shut up."
    He made a little sighing sound, then obliged her by passing out. She cradled him, sopping at blood, and listened for the sirens.
    She met Whitney in the surgical waiting room. Her shirt and trousers were soaked with Webster's blood, her face pale as death.
    "I screwed up. I was sure I could reason with him, that I could reach him and bring him in. Instead, he's at large and another good cop's dying."
    "Webster's getting the best care available. Every one of us is responsible for himself, Dallas."
    "I took him along." It could be Peabody on the operating table, she thought. Oh God, no way to win.
    "He took himself along. Regardless, you've identified the suspect, and have done so through skilled investigative work. Sergeant Clooney won't be at large for long. We have an all-points. He's known. He fled with the clothes on his back. He has no funds, no resources."
    "A smart cop knows how to go under. I let him go, Commander. I did not take the opportunity to take him down nor did I pursue."
    "If you were again faced with making the choice of pursuing a suspect or saving a fellow officer's life, which way would you go?"
    "I'd do the same thing." She looked toward the operating room. "For what it's worth."
    "So would I. Lieutenant, go home. Get some sleep. You'll need all the resources of your own to finish this."
    "Sir, I'd like to wait until they can tell us something on Webster."
    "All right. Let's get some coffee. Can't be any worse here than it is at Central."
    When she dragged herself home, her system was begging to shut down, but her mind refused. She replayed the moment in Clooney's doorway a hundred times. Had there been a flicker in his eyes, one she should have seen, responded to, an instant before the knife came up?
    If Webster hadn't moved in, could she have dodged and deflected?
    What was the point? she asked herself as she stepped into the house. Nothing changed.
    "Eve."
    Roarke came out of the parlor where he'd waited for her. She'd come home bloody before,