In Death 20 - Survivor in Death

department counselor would have delivered the news by now to the families of the dead. So she was spared that. She would have to speak to them at the memorials, offer some words.
    She wanted the words to include: We got the sons of bitches who did this. Who left you a widow, who killed your son, your brother. Who left you without a father.
    She pinched the bridge of her nose, then rose to pin the stills from the scene onto her board.
    Then she sat to write her report.
    None of the other safe houses had been hit. Didn’t hit them, she thought, because you knew the target wasn’t there. Knew that when you found two armed cops guarding an empty house.
    Killing them was a flourish, she decided. A message. No need to finish them off when they were down. Already decided to do that, though. Part of the mission. Take out everybody inside, another clean sweep.
    And what’s the message? Why add cop killing to the mix when it brings down the full force of the NYPSD? Because you think you’re better--smarter, slicker, better equipped. And you know we’ve made the connection. You know we’ve got the kid and you want her.
    Newman would have told you the kid can’t ID you. But she’s a detail, she’s a miss, and you can’t risk it.
    I wouldn’t, Eve thought. No, I wouldn’t chance leaving that thread dangling when I’d been so careful. It’s not squared away, and it’s a little bit insulting. Some snot-nosed kid slips out from under you?
    Pride in the work. She tipped back just a bit, rolled her shoulders. Got to have pride in the work to be that damn good at it. And the mission wasn’t accomplished, is not complete until Nixie Swisher is dead.
    “So what will you do next?” Eve asked aloud. “What will you do?”
    There was a sharp knock on her door, then Peabody shoved it open. “You didn’t call me in. I heard it on the goddamn screen.”
    “I need you tomorrow. I need you fresh.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Eve sat where she was, though a low vibration had begun to hum in her blood. “Crossing a line, Detective.”
    “I’m your partner. This case is mine, too. I knew those guys.”
    “I’m also your lieutenant, and you’re going to want to be careful before you end up with an insubordinate in your file.”
    “Fuck my file. And fuck you, too, if you think I give a rat’s ass about it.”
    Slowly, Eve rose out of her chair. Peabody’s chin jutted out, her jaw clenched--and so did her fists. “Going to take a shot at me, Detective? You’ll be on your ass and bloody before you finish the swing.”
    “Maybe.”
    In all the time they’d worked together, Eve had seen Peabody pissed, hurt, sad, and ready to rumble. But she’d never seen her boiling with all of it. A choice had to be made, and quickly. Plow in, step back.
    And just as quickly, Eve decided to do neither. Her eyes stayed steady, her stance at the ready. “You’re beautiful when you’re angry.”
    There was a blink, then two. “Dallas--”
    “All hot and steamy. If I went for girls, I’d jump you right now.”
    There was a tremble along the jaw that rippled into a reluctant smile. And just like that, the crisis passed.
    “I didn’t call you in for the reasons I just told you. Plus this one.” Her hand snapped out, fast as a flicked whip and connected with Peabody’s ribs.
    Peabody’s breath sucked in, and her face lost all color--until it came back with a faint tinge of green. “That was just mean. Even for you.”
    “Yeah, and telling. You’re not a hundred percent yet. You don’t get your downtime, you’re no good to me.” Eve crossed to the AutoChef, ordered up a bottle of water as Peabody leaned against the desk and got her breath back. “I can’t afford to worry about you, and I am. I don’t like seeing you hurting.”
    “That nearly makes up for the punch in the ribs.”
    “The fact that you called that tap a punch ought to tell you something.” She handed Peabody the water. “You nearly died.”
    “Well, Jesus, Dallas.”
    “You nearly died,” Eve repeated, and it was partner to partner now, a unity tighter than most marriages. “I was afraid you would. Sick and afraid.”
    “I know,” Peabody replied. “I get that.”
    “I cleared you to come back because medical said you could handle light duty. This isn’t turning out to be light. I’m not taking you off this case because I know if I were in your shoes--which would never happen, as I’d have to be beaten unconscious before you’d get those pink