In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

"Maybe I don't have time for you this morning."
    He strolled to his closet, selected a suit jacket from the vast forest of his wardrobe. She had never figured out how he knew what went with what when there was so damn much to choose from.
    "Maybe you'll have to make time. I'll ride with you. I've made arrangements to be picked up at the club when I'm finished there."
    "You had this set up before you got home last night."
    "Hmmm." He moved to her closet, found the gray vest that matched her trousers. If she'd thought to look for it herself, it would have taken her an hour not to find it. "It's cool out this morning," he said as he handed it to her.
    "You think you're slick, don't you?"
    "Yes." He bent down, kissed her, deftly did up the vest buttons for her. "Ready?"
    "You don't talk to the other cops," Eve warned as they approached the club.
    "What in the world would I have to say to them?" He continued to read and respond to overnight correspondence on his PPC while she pulled to the curb.
    "You don't go anywhere on scene unless you're accompanied by me, Peabody, or an officer I designate," she continued. "And you take nothing -- that means nothing -- off scene."
    "Are you interested in a small summer home in Juno, Alaska?" He glanced at her, met her narrowed eyes. "No, I see you're not. I don't believe I am, either. Ah, here we are." He pocketed the mini-unit. "And we appear to be the first to arrive."
    "Roarke, no funny business."
    "Fortunately, I left my red rubber nose at the office." He climbed out of the car. "Shall I open it for you?" He gestured at the police seal on the club's entrance door.
    "Don't start with me." Struggling not to rise to the bait, she strode to the door, uncoded the seal. "If you screw around, I promise I'm calling a couple of big, burly uniforms and having them remove you from the scene."
    "But darling, it's so much more arousing when the police brutality comes from you."
    "Keep it up, smart guy." She shoved open the door. The light was dim through the windows, and she could still smell the unpleasant aroma of spilled liquor and stale blood that mixed with the chemical stench of sweeper dust.
    "Lights on," she ordered. "Main bar area."
    Those that were still operational brightened and cast a cool white light over the destruction.
    "Doesn't look any better today, does it?" Roarke scanned the room, felt the little stir of temper.
    "Close the door." She said it quietly, took a breath, and did what she did best. She put herself in the middle of murder.
    "He comes in, after closing. He's been here before. He has to know the place, the setup, the security. Maybe he worked here, but if he did, and was on last night, he left with everyone else. Nobody's going to tag him as being alone here with Kohli."
    She moved around and through the debris, toward the bar. "He sits down, asks for a drink. Friendly, casual. They've got business to discuss, something to talk over. That needs privacy."
    "Why doesn't he have Kohli disarm the security cameras?" Roarke asked.
    "He's not worried about the cameras. He's going to take care of them. After. Just a friendly after-hours drink, a little conversation. Nothing that's going to set off Kohli's cop vibes. If he had any. Kohli gets himself a beer, stays behind the bar. He's comfortable. Eats some nuts. He knows this guy. They've probably had a drink together before."
    She glanced up, checking out the locations of the cameras. "Kohli's not worried about the security cams either. So either they're not talking about anything that's going to jam him, or he has turned them off. All the while, this guy's sitting here thinking about how to make his move. He comes behind the bar, helps himself to a drink this time."
    She walked behind the bar, seeing it in her head. Kohli, big, strong and alive, wearing his Purgatory uniform. Black shirt, black slacks. Sipping at a beer, popping some bar nuts.
    "The blood's pounding in his head, and his heart's thumping like a drum, but he doesn't let it show. Maybe he makes a joke, asks Kohli to get something. Just enough to make him turn his back for an instant. Long enough for him to grab the bat and swing."
    A second, she thought, no more. No more than that to close a hand around the bat, jerk it free. Swing.
    "The first crack of it sings up his arms, right into the shoulders. Blood sprays, and Kohli's face smashes into the glass. Bottles crash, and it's like an explosion.
    "An explosion," she repeated, with her eyes slitted, flat.