In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

in the squad's friggie.
    Still, it filled the hole so that by the time she got home she was more interested in a long, hot shower than a meal. She was slightly disappointed that Summerset didn't slide into the foyer on her arrival so they could have their evening pissing match.
    Shower first, she decided, jogging up the stairs. Then she'd track Roarke down. The shower would give her time to figure out just how much of her day she wanted to share with him.
    Editing Ricker out of it, for the time being, seemed like the best path to marital harmony.
    When she stepped into the bedroom, she saw the flowers first. It was difficult to miss them as there was a four-foot spread of them dead center of the room and the scent was sweet enough to hurt her teeth.
    It took another moment to realize the flowers had long, skinny legs in black trousers.
    Summerset. The shower could wait.
    "For me? Gee, you shouldn't have. If you don't try harder to control your passion for me, Roarke's going to fire your bony ass and make my life complete."
    "Your humor," the flowers said in a dry, faintly Slavic voice, "eludes me as usual. This obnoxious and overstated arrangement just arrived by private messenger."
    "Watch the cat," she began as Summerset stepped forward and Galahad strolled in his path. To her surprise and reluctant admiration, Summerset neatly sidestepped, avoided Galahad's tail by a, well, a cat hair, and neatly set the enormous bouquet on the wide table in the sitting area.
    Galahad leaped up, sniffed at it, then padded over to butt his head on Summerset's leg.
    "The flowers are for you," Summerset said, and since she was looking, ignored the cat. "And as of now, they become your problem."
    "Who sent them? They're not Roarke's style."
    "Certainly not." Summerset sniffed, a great deal as Galahad had done, and eyed the elaborate arrangement with distaste. "Perhaps one of your felonious acquaintances considers it a suitable bribe."
    "Yeah, right." She snatched out the card, ripped it open, then snarled in a manner that had the cat leaping down and standing between Summerset's legs. "Ricker, that son of a bitch."
    "Max Ricker?" Distaste turned to ice, the jagged sort that flayed skin. "Why would he send you flowers?"
    "To get my goat," she said absently, then a ripple of fear worked into her belly. "Or Roarke's. Get them out of here. Bum them, stuff them in the recycler. Get rid of them fast. And don't tell Roarke." She grabbed Summerset's sleeve. "Don't tell Roarke."
    She made it a point never to ask Summerset for anything. The fact that she was, and urgently, had alarm bells sounding in his brain. "What's Ricker to you?"
    "A target. Get them out, damn it. Where's Roarke?"
    "In his office upstairs. Let me see the card. Have you been threatened?"
    "They're bait," she said impatiently. "For Roarke. Take the elevator. Move. Get them gone." She crumbled the card in her hand before Summerset could grab it from her. "Now."
    Dissatisfied, Summerset lifted the arrangement again. "Be very, very careful," he said, then maneuvered them onto the elevator.
    She waited until the doors closed before she smoothed out the card, read it again.
    I never had the chance to kiss the bride. M. Ricker
    "I'll give you the chance," she muttered and carefully tore the card to bits. "The first time we meet in hell."
    She flushed the pieces, breathed a little easier, then stripped. She left her clothes where they fell, laid her weapon harness over the long counter, then stepped into the glass-walled shower.
    "All jets full," she ordered, closing her eyes. "One hundred and two degrees."
    She let the water beat at her everywhere, warm away the little chill the flowers had brought with them. She would put that aside and calculate how she would drill at Lewis the next morning.
    Feeling better, she turned the jets off, squeezed some of the water out of her hair, and turned. Yelped.
    "Jesus. Jesus Christ, Roarke, you know I hate when you sneak up on me like that."
    "Yes, I do." He opened the door to the drying tube, knowing she preferred it to a leisurely toweling off. While the fan whirled, he strolled over to take her robe from the hook on the back of the door.
    But when she stepped out, he held onto it rather than offering. "Who put those marks on you?"
    "Huh?"
    "Your arm's bruised."
    "Yeah." She glanced down, had an image of Ricker, his eyes burning as his fingers dug into her flesh. "You're right. Must've run into something." She reached for the robe only to