Free Naked in Death by J. D. Robb Page B

shagged with two men out and the bases loaded. Even as she closed her hand around it, the thief swung out.
    It was the back of his hand rather than a fist, and Eve considered herself lucky. She saw stars as she hit a stand of soy chips, but she held on to the homemade boomer.
    Wrong hand, goddamn it, wrong hand, she had time to think as the stand collapsed under her. She tried to use her left to free her weapon, but the two hundred and fifty pounds of fury and desperation fell on her.
    “Hit the alarm, you asshole,” she shouted as Francois stood like a statue with his mouth opening and closing. “Hit the fucking alarm.” Then she grunted as the blow to her ribs stole her breath. This time he’d used his fist.
    He was weeping now, scratching and clawing up her arm in an attempt to reach the explosive. “I need the money. I got to have it. I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you all.”
    She managed to bring her knee up. The age old defense bought her a few seconds, but lacked the power to debilitate.
    She saw stars again as her head smacked sharply into the side of a counter. Dozens of the candy bars she’d craved rained down on her.
    “You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.” She heard herself saying it, over and over as she landed three hard short arm blows to his face. Blood spurting from his nose, he grabbed her arm.
    And she knew it was going to break. Knew she would feel that sharp, sweet pain, hear the thin crack as bone fractured.
    But just as she drew in breath to scream, as her vision began to gray with agony, his weight was off her.
    The ball still cupped in her hand, she rolled over onto her haunches, struggling to breathe and fighting the need to retch. From that position she saw the shiny black shoes that always said beat cop.
    “Book him.” She coughed once, painfully. “Attempted robbery, armed, carrying an explosive, assault.” She’d have liked to have added assaulting an officer and resisting arrest, but as she hadn’t identified herself, she’d be skirting the line.
    “You all right, ma’am? Want the MTs?”
    She didn’t want the medi-techs. She wanted a fucking candy bar. “Lieutenant,” she corrected, pushing herself up and reaching for her ID. She noted that the perp was in restraints and that one of the two cops had been wise enough to use his stunner to take the fight out of him.
    “We need a safe box — quick.” She watched both cops pale as they saw what she held in her hand. “This little boomer’s had quite a ride. Let’s get it neutralized.”
    “Sir.” The first cop was out of the store in a flash. In the ninety seconds it took him to return with the black box used for transporting and deactivating explosives, no one spoke.
    They hardly breathed.
    “Book him,” Eve repeated. The moment the explosive was contained, her stomach muscles began to tremble. “I’ll transmit my report. You guys with the Hundred and twenty-third?”
    “You bet, lieutenant.”
    “Good job.” She reached down, favoring her injured arm and chose a Galaxy bar that hadn’t been flattened by the wrestling match. “I’m going home.”
    “You didn’t pay for that,” Francois shouted after her.
    “Fuck you, Frank,” she shouted back and kept going.
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    The incident put her behind schedule. By the time she reached Roarke’s mansion, it was 7:10. She’d used over the counter medication to ease the pain in her arm and shoulder. If it wasn’t better in a couple of days, she knew she’d have to go in for an exam. She hated doctors.
    She parked the car and spent a moment studying Roarke’s house. Fortress, more like, she thought. Its four stories towered over the frosted trees of Central Park. It was one of the old buildings, close to two hundred years old, built of actual stone, if her eyes didn’t deceive her.
    There was lots of glass, and lights burning gold behind the windows. There was also a security gate,