Page 145 of Calculated in Death

“I just want you out, and out of the way.”

“Don’t worry.” Leonardo put his big arm around Mavis. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Oh, honey bear.”

“No kissy-face, we’re about to pull up. You mingle, and until this goes down I don’t want you too close to me.”

“We’re all good. You stay that way,” Mavis warned, and gave Eve a quick hug. “And you can follow my lead,” she told Peabody. “Well, Dallas’s for the op, but mine for the show. Remember?”

“Smile, but keep it easy and natural. Shoulders back, don’t slouch. It’s okay to wave. If I pose, oh God, shift my weight to my back foot. And looking-over-the-shoulder shots are usually flattering.”

“Nailed it in one.” Mavis patted Peabody’s arm. “Here we go. Catch this bastard quick, okay, so we can have some fun.”

The driver, one of Roarke’s personal security team, opened the door. The sea of sound rolled in. Shouts, calls, flashes from cheap home cams and vids.

Leonardo stepped out first, offered Mavis his hand. And when she slid out, the sea of sound crested. Despite the circumstances, despite the tension, it gave Eve a boost to hear the crowds shout out Mavis’s name.

“She’s kind of a sensation,” Eve observed. Then shifted modes. “Exiting vehicle now, Peabody to follow.”

At her nod, Roarke got out, offered Eve his hand. Another crest of sound, and a stunning galaxy of lights greeted her. Faces and flashes and the bright red river of carpet.

Even as Eve’s eyes tracked, searched out her man, the chants of her name, of Roarke’s began.

She noted the route followed Peabody’s intel, the river streaming straight, then spilling into an ocean of red. People in tuxedos and sharp suits, sparkling dresses, glittering jewels glided over it. Smiling, laughing, posing.

Clinton Frye wasn’t among them.

Yet.

“Lieutenant Dallas is another sensation,” Roarke commented.

“It’s weird. And a little creepy. On the move,” she added as they started up the red carpet.

It got weirder with the shouted questions, the mics stuck in her face, the effervescent enthusiasm of the media, and the half-wild energy of the people crowded against the barricades.

For what? she wondered. She walked these streets nearly every day, she’d probably—given the odds—busted at least one of the people out there cheering, calling, waving.

All this frantic excitement just to catch a glimpse of a cop? It made her embarrassed for New York.

When she whispered as much to Roarke, he laughed. Just laughed, then completed the embarrassment by kissing her.

And the crowd went wild.

“Cut that out!”

“I might resist,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips, “if you’d stop delighting me.”

“I’ll work on it.”

It was just part of the op, she told herself as reporters began to swarm. Just part of the trap.

Great night, looking forward to it, blah, blah, yeah, yeah, the dress is Leonardo. Whose shoes are they? They’re my shoes.

For some reason this brought on a trilling laugh from some slicked-up fashion reporter.

She walked what she now thought of as a gauntlet, talking, smiling, searching, scanning, listening to reports in her ear—no sign yet—keeping both Mavis and Peabody on her radar. Then Nadine, in a liquid skin of silver, and Mira in deep and flowing coral. Dennis Mira, looking bemused and befuddled. God, he was so cute. The commander looking commanding beside his regal, slightly scary wife.

She heard her name called, glanced, and watched Marlo, her hand linked with Matthew’s, hurry toward her.