In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

edges. "Most detectives don't care to socialize with Internal Affairs. Funny how we all frown over a dirty cop, but nobody wants to rub elbows with the ones digging them out."
    "Are you saying Kohli was dirty?"
    "I'm not saying that at all. I wouldn't be at liberty to discuss an internal investigation with you, if there was an internal investigation."
    "Bullshit, Webster. Just bullshit. I have a dead cop. If he was mixed up in something off, I need to know."
    "I can't discuss IAB business with you. It came to my attention that you've opened his financials."
    She paused a minute as her temper threatened to spike. "I can't discuss a homicide investigation with you. And why would part of the procedure of that investigation come to the attention of the Rat Squad?"
    "Now you're trying to piss me off." He kept his composure, gave a little shrug. "I thought I would give you a heads-up, unofficially and in a friendly manner, that the department, as a whole, will be better off if this investigation is closed quickly and quietly."
    "Was Kohli in bed with Ricker?"
    This time a muscle jumped in Webster's cheek, but his voice stayed smooth. "I don't know what you're talking about. Digging into Detective Kohli's financials is a dead end, Dallas, and will upset his family. The man was killed off duty."
    "A man was beaten to death. A cop. A woman's been widowed. Two children lost their father. And it's supposed to matter less that it happened when he was off duty?"
    "No." He had the grace or the wit to look uncomfortable. And then to look away. "That's just the way it went down. That's all there is to it."
    "Don't tell me how to do my job, Webster. Don't ever tell me how to conduct a homicide investigation. You gave up cop work. I didn't."
    "Dallas." He caught up with her before she reached the curb again. He gripped her arm and braced himself for the storm when she whirled on him.
    Instead, she met his eyes, her own cold, flat, empty. "Move your hand. Now."
    He complied, slipping his into his pocket. "I'm just trying to tell you IAB wants this closed quiet."
    "What makes you think I give one good fuck about what IAB wants? You have something to say to me regarding my investigation into the death of Detective Taj Kohli, you do it in an official capacity. Don't tail me again, Webster. Not ever."
    She climbed into her car, waited for a break in the mild traffic, and swung into a U-turn.
    He watched her cover the distance, then turn into the high gates of the world she lived in now. He took three deep breaths, and when that didn't work, kicked viciously at his own rear tire.
    He hated what he'd done. And more, he hated knowing he'd never really gotten over her.

CHAPTER THREE
    She was steaming when she barreled down the drive to the great stone house Roarke had made his home. And hers.
    So much, she thought, for checking your work at the door. What the hell were you supposed to do when it followed you to the damn threshold? Webster was up to something, which meant there was an agenda here, and the agenda was IAB's.
    Now she had to calm herself down so she could filter out her annoyance at being waylaid by him. It was more important to puzzle out what he'd been trying to tell her. And more important yet, to calculate what he'd been so damn careful not to tell her.
    She left the car at the end of the drive because she liked it there and because it annoyed Roarke's majordomo, the consistently irritating Summerset.
    She grabbed her bag that held the files and was halfway up the steps when she stopped. Deliberately, she blew out a long, cleansing breath, turned, and simply sat down.
    It was time to try something new, she decided. Time to sit and enjoy the pleasant spring evening, enjoy the gorgeous simplicity of the flowering trees and shrubs that spread over the lawn, speared into the sky. She'd lived here for more than a year now and rarely, very rarely took time to see. Time to appreciate what Roarke had built or the style with which he'd built it
    The house itself with its sweeps and turrets and dazzling expanses of glass was a monument to taste, wealth, and elegant comfort. There were too many rooms to count filled with art, antiques, and every pleasure and convenience a man could make for himself.
    But the grounds, she thought, were another level. This was a man who needed room, who demanded it. And commanded it. At the same time, he was a man who could appreciate the simple appeal of a flower that would bloom and fade with its