Page 45 of Devoted in Death

“Being a wreck over his young aide speaks well of him. And don’t claim you didn’t fret about it when Peabody took hers.”

“I trained her. If she’d bombed it, I’d have kicked her ass.”

“How do you think our young Trueheart will do?”

“He’ll pass. If he doesn’t it means he’s not ready. It means he let nerves screw him up. A cop can’t let nerves screw him up, so that would be not ready. Unless he and Baxter catch a hot, I’m going to use them on my investigation. It’s more hands and eyes, and it’ll keep them both busy and occupied.”

“You’re a good boss, Lieutenant.”

“The cops under me deserve one, so I need to be. If Trueheart makes it I’m going to request another uniform.”

“Anyone in mind?”

“A couple I’ll look into, if and when.” She felt the cat start to slink down the sofa like a snake when she picked up some bacon. “What’s on your plate today?”

“A number of meetings, reviews—much of which, lucky for me, I can handle from here via ’link or holograph. I’ll venture out later. I want to go by the youth shelter—work’s progressing very well there. And as I’ve also been away, I’ll want to spend time at my office.” He scooped up oatmeal happily enough. “I’m also a good boss.”

“Of legions.”

As the cat bellied over, eyes fixed on bacon, Roarke merely turned his head, raised an eyebrow. Galahad rolled onto his back, yawned hugely.

“Why does he think he’s going to get away with it?” Eve wondered. “He never does.”

“You can’t get the prize without reaching for it.”

Acknowledging the point, she reached for the prize of more coffee—and her communicator signaled.

“Hell.” She rose, went over to pick it up from the dresser. “Dallas.”

“Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. See the woman at 623 Bond, apartment 902. Whittiker, Kari has reported a possible missing person. Notification of possible missings flagged at your request.”

“Right. Who’s missing?”

“Campbell, Jayla, age twenty-four, mixed-race female. Last seen, 754 Carmine, apartment 615, at approximately twenty-four-thirty hours.”

“Acknowledged. I’ll take it. Dallas out.”

She frowned at the comm before setting it down again. “Probably nothing. Probably hooked up with somebody, but I had them flag any missings or possible missings over the age of sixteen. They’ve never gone for kids, that we know of.”

“Small blessings. Do you want me to go with you?”

“No point. I’ll take it solo, just meet up with Peabody at Central. The woman hasn’t been out of touch for even eight hours, so it’s probably nothing.”

“And yet.”

“And yet.” She headed for the closet. “If this turns out to be one of theirs, we’ve got a hell of a lot more time than anybody’s had before. That’s a start.”

She came out with a navy-blue crew neck sweater, brown trousers and a brown jacket. And frowned again when he gave her the Galahad/bacon raised eyebrow.

“What? What’s wrong with this stuff?”

“Keep the sweater and trousers.” He rose, plucked the jacket away from her, and strolled into the closet.

“Why can’t I get it right?” she demanded. “I think I do get it right, but you like to make me think I don’t get it right.”

“It’s not altogether wrong. There’s just a better choice.”

She yanked on a support tank, muttering about better choices, wriggled into underwear, and was hooking the trousers when he came out with a jacket—a brown one, damn it.