In Death 18 - Divided in Death

work,” she complained. But it was for form. It might do them, do everything some good, to have people around. Making noise, taking up energy.
    Keeping the illusion all was normal, in place.
    “I just want to spend a regular evening working through the insidious and murderous plots of the HSO and foreign techno-terrorists. Is that too much to ask?”
    “Of course not, but life will intrude. Would you like me to tell you how Feeney and I did in Queens?”
    “Shit. Shit!” She threw out her hands and nearly caught Roarke on the chin with a fist. “See? This has got me so messed up I didn’t even remember what’s going on with my own case. Where’s Feeney?”
    “He stayed back in Queens to supervise the removal of some of the sculptures. They’re being impounded. You were dead-on about the bugs.”
    Look how you watch me, he thought. Trying to see inside my head, to read what’s there. So we won’t have to talk about it again. What are we going to do about this? he wondered.
    “We found six sculptures—three out and three in—that were bugged.” He smiled. He couldn’t make it reach his eyes, but he smiled. “Very sexy technology, too, from the looks of it. It’ll be fun to take one of the devices apart for analysis once we hack it out of the metal.”
    “Eyes or ears?”
    “Both. From preliminary study, using a satellite bounce. No question whoever was watching and listening knows we’ve found them.”
    “Good.” She pushed to her feet. “If Bissel was spying on his own wife for the HSO, they already know we’re making moves. I had a meet with an assistant director today.”
    “Did you?” He said it very softly, very coolly, and sent a chill up her spine.
    “Yeah. And if Bissel turned and was working with the other side, though I don’t see a hell of a lot of differences between sides here, they’ll be scrambling. I’m going to handle it,” she said, and let the pretense drop, for a moment. “I’m going to handle it.”
    “No doubt. I don’t intend to tell you how to handle it,” he added, very carefully. “Can you say the same?”
    “It isn’t the same. It—” She pulled back, like a woman who felt herself sliding over a cliff. “Let’s just table that. Concentrate on what is.”
    “Happy to. What is?”
    “The investigation. We should take this upstairs, fill each other in.”
    “All right.” He touched her face, then leaned in, brushed his lips over hers. “We’ll do what’s most normal for us, for now. Go up and talk about murder, then have a meal with friends. That suit you?”
    “Yeah, it does.” She made the effort, kissed him back. Then got to her feet. She rolled her shoulders. “This is better. Briefing and a burger. Keeps my mind off Trina and her scary bag of tricks.”
    Because he wanted her to smile, needed her to, he walked his fingers up her arm as they started upstairs. “What flavor skin cream do you suppose Trina will put on you?”
    “Shut up. Just shut up.”
    ———«»———«»———«»———
    “This,” McNab said as he took in a gulp of tropical air, “is living.”
    “We’re not living. We’re investigating. There’ll be no living until we’ve completed the investigative purpose of this trip.”
    He cocked his head, studied her from behind his fuchsia-tinted sunshades. “You sounded just like Dallas. I find that strangely arousing.”
    She elbow-jabbed him, but didn’t put much behind it. “We’re going straight to Waves and interview Diesel Moore regarding Carter Bissel. We’ll go by Bissel’s residence, speak to any neighbors or associates.”
    “Now you sound bossy.” He gave her butt, currently covered in thin summer pants, a friendly pat. “I like that, too.”
    “You’ve got a grade on me, but I’m Homicide.” And boy, did she love saying that. “So I’m in charge of this hunting party. And I say first we do the job, then we . . . live.”
    “I hear that. Still, we gotta rent transpo.”
    He slid his gaze to a line of scooters chained outside a hut beside their hotel. They were as colorful and bright as a circus parade, and screamed tourist.
    Peabody grinned. “And I hear that.”
    ———«»———«»———«»———
    Waves was a hole-in-the-wall joint screwed into a clapboard building on one of Kingston’s less welcoming streets. They’d gotten lost twice—or had pretended to get lost as they’d scooted along narrow streets with the island breeze fluttering over their urban