She glanced over at raised voices, saw one of her detectives and a couple of uniforms dwarfed by a man about the size of the vending machine they’d gathered in front of.
“I want to see my brother!” the giant shouted. “Now!”
Carmichael, generally unflappable in Eve’s estimation, kept her voice low and soothing. “Now, Billy, we explained that your brother’s giving a statement. As soon as he’s done—”
“You’ve got him in a cage! You’re beating him up!”
“No, Billy. Jerry’s helping us. We’re trying to find the bad man who hurt his boss. Remember how somebody hurt Mr. Kolbecki?”
“They killed him dead. Now you’re going to kill Jerry. Where’s Jerry?”
“Let’s go sit over—”
Billy screamed his brother’s name loudly enough that cops stopped, turned, slipped out of doorways.
Eve changed direction, headed toward the trouble. “Problem here?”
“Lieutenant.” The unflappable Carmichael sent Eve a look of utter frustration. “Billy’s upset. Somebody killed the nice man he and his brother work for. We’re talking to Billy’s brother now. We’re just going to get Billy a nice drink before we talk to him, too. Mr. Kolbecki was your boss, too, right, Billy? You liked Mr. Kolbecki.”
“I sweep the floors and wash the windows. I can have a soda when I’m thirsty.”
“Yeah, Mr. Kolbecki let you have sodas. This is Lieutenant Dallas. She’s my boss. So now I have to do my job, and we’re all going to sit down and—”
“You’d better not hurt my brother.” Going for the top of the authority ladder, Billy plucked Eve right off her feet, shook her like a rag doll. “You’ll be sorry if you hurt Jerry.”
Cops grabbed for stunners. Shouts rang in Eve’s ears as her bones knocked together. She judged her mark, estimated the ratio of his face and her fist. Then spared her knuckles and kicked him solidly in the balls.
She was airborne. She had a split second to think: Oh, shit.
She landed hard on her ass, skidded, then her head rapped hard enough against a vending machine to have a few stars dancing in front of her eyes.
Warning! Warning! the machine announced.
As Eve reached for her weapon, someone took her arm. Roarke managed to block the fist aimed at his face before it landed. “Easy,” he soothed. “He’s down. And how are you?”
“He rang my bell. Damn it.” She reached around, rubbed the back of her head as she glared at the huge man now sitting on the floor, holding his crotch and sobbing. “Carmichael!”
“Sir.” Carmichael clipped over, leaving the uniforms to restrain Billy. “Lieutenant. Jesus, Dallas, I’m sorry about that. You okay?”
“What the fuck?”
“Vic was found by this guy and his brother this morning when they reported for work. Vic owned a little market on Washington. It appears the vic was attacked before closing last night, robbed and beaten to death. We brought the brothers in for questioning—we’re looking for the night guy. We don’t believe, at this time, the brothers here were involved, but that they may have pertinent information regarding the whereabouts of the night clerk.”
Carmichael blew out a breath. “This guy, Billy? He was fine coming in. Crying a little about the dead guy. He’s, you know, a little slow. The brother, Jerry, told him it was okay, to go on with us to get a drink, to talk to us. But he got worked up once we separated them. Man, Dallas, I never thought he’d go for you. You need an MT?”
“No, I don’t need a damn MT.” Eve shoved to her feet. “Take him into Observation. Let him see his brother’s not being beaten with our vast supply of rubber hoses and saps.”
“Yes, sir. Ah, you want us to slap Billy with assaulting an officer?”
“No. Forget it.” Eve walked over, crouched down in front of the sobbing man. “Hey, Billy. Look at me. You’re going to go see Jerry now.”
He sniffled, swiped at his runny nose with the back of his hand. “Now?”
“Yeah.”
“There was blood all over, and Mr. Kolbecki wouldn’t wake up. It made Jerry cry, and he said I couldn’t look, and couldn’t touch. Then they took Jerry away. He takes care of me, and I take care of him. You can’t take Jerry away. If somebody hurts him like Mr. Kolbecki—”
“Nobody’s going to do that. What kind of soda does Jerry like best?”
“He likes cream soda. Mr. Kolbecki lets us have cream sodas.”
“Why don’t you get one for Jerry out of the machine? This officer will take it to him, and you can watch through the window, see Jerry talking to the detective. Then you can talk to the detective.”
“I’m going to see Jerry now?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He smiled, sweet as a baby. “My nuts sure are sore.”
“I bet.”
She straightened, stepped back. Roarke had retrieved her disc bag, and the discs that had gone flying as she had. He held it out now. “You’re late for your briefing, Lieutenant.”
She snatched the bag, suppressed a smirk. “Bite me.”
14
IT WAS FASCINATING, ROARKE THOUGHT, IN SO many ways to watch her work.
He’d wandered out of the conference room when he’d heard the commotion, in time to see the erupting mountain of a man lift her a foot off the ground. His instinct had been, naturally, to rush forward, to protect his wife. And he’d been quick.
She’d been quicker.
He’d actually seen her calculate in those bare seconds her head had been snapping back and forth on her neck. Punch, gouge, or kick, he remembered. Just as he’d seen more irritation than shock on her face when she’d gone flying.
Took a hell of a knock, he thought now, but temper had been riper than pain. He’d seen that, too. Just as he’d seen her compassion for the distress and confusion of a scared little boy inside a man’s body.
And here she was, moments later, taking charge of the room, putting all that behind her.
It was hardly a wonder that it had been her, essentially from the first minute he’d seen her. That it would be her until his last breath. And very likely well beyond that.
She hadn’t worn her jacket for the briefing, he noted. She looked lean and not a little dangerous with her weapon strapped over her sweater. He’d seen her drape the diamond he’d once given her over her neck before she’d put on the sweater that morning.
The priceless Giant’s Tear and the police-issue. That combination, he thought, said something about their merging lives.
As he listened to her brisk update, he toyed with the gray button—her button—he always carried in his pocket.
“I expect to have a face within the next couple of hours,” she continued. “Until that time, these are the lines we pursue. Urban Wars connection. Captain Feeney?”
“Slow going there,” he said, “due to the lack of records. The Home Force did have documented billets and clinics in the city, and I’m working with those. But there were any number of unofficial locations used, and used temporarily. More that were destroyed or subsequently razed. I’ve interviewed and am set to interview individuals who were involved militarily, paramilitarily, or as civilians. I’m going to focus on body disposal.”
“Do you need more men?”
“I’ve got a couple I can put on it.”
“Do that. Knocking on doors. Newkirk, you and your team will recanvass this sector.” She turned, aiming her laser pointer to highlight a five-block area around the bakery where Ariel Greenfeld worked. “Every apartment, every business, every street LC, sidewalk sleeper, and panhandler. Somebody saw Greenfeld Sunday afternoon. Make them remember. Baxter, you and Trueheart take this sector around Greenfeld’s residence. He watched her. From the street, from another building, from a vehicle. In order to familiarize himself with her routine, he staked her out more than once. Jenkinson and Powell, recanvass the area of York’s and Rossi’s residences. Peabody and I will take the gym and the club.”
She paused, and Roarke cou
ld see her going through her mental checklist. “The real estate angle. Roarke.”
“There are a significant number of private residences,” he began, “and businesses with residences on site that have been owned and operated by the same individual or individuals for the time frame. Even reducing this search area to below Fiftieth in Manhattan, the number is considerable. I believe, if I cross with Feeney, do a search for private buildings that were in existence during the Urbans, whether as residences or otherwise, we’ll cut that down.”
“Good.” She thought a moment. “That’s good. Do that. Connecting cases. McNab.”
“It’s been like trying to pick the right flea off a gorilla.”
“My line,” Callendar muttered beside him, and he grinned.
“Her line, but I think we may have a good possible. First vic in Florida, housekeeper at a swank resort, last seen after leaving the Sunshine Casino at approximately oh-one-hundred. She habitually spent a few hours on her night off playing the poker slots. Going on the theory that her killer had made earlier contact, may have been known by her, I did a run on the resort’s register for the thirty days prior to her death. Investigators at that time took a pass through it after the second body was discovered, but as it appeared the vic had been grabbed outside the casino, focused their efforts there. But a copy of the register was in the case file. Tits here and I went though it.”
“And you got lucky,” Callendar mumbled.
“And I’m so good,” McNab said smoothly, “that I hit on a guest registered three weeks before the vic was snatched, with a four-day stay. Name of Cicero Edwards. Resort requires an address, to which Edwards listed one in London. I ran the name with said address and came up with zip. No Edwards, Cicero, at that address at that time. And better, the address was bogus. It’s the address for—”
“An opera house,” Eve said and had McNab’s pretty face moving into a pout.
“Wind, sails, sucked out,” he commented. “The Royal Opera House, to be exact. Leading your crack e-team to deduce this was our guy, and that our guy has a thing for fat women singing in really high voices.”
“I have information that may add further weight to that.” She encapsulated Nadine’s information. “Good work.” She nodded at McNab and Callendar. “Find more. Roarke, see if you can dig up any buildings that were used as opera houses or theaters that held operas during the Urbans. And—”
“He’ll have season tickets,” Roarke said. “If he’s a serious buff, and is able to afford the luxury, he’d indulge it. Box seats, most likely. Here at the Met, very likely at the Royal and other opera houses of repute.”
“We can work that,” she replied. “Dig, cross-check. He likes to vary his name. Punch on any variation of Edward.” She glanced at her wrist unit, cursed. “I’m late for the damn media. Get started.”
She turned, studied the name she’d added to the white board. Ariel Greenfeld.
“Let’s find her,” she said, and went out.
She got through the media without actually grinding her teeth down to nubs. She considered that progress. Whitney was waiting for her outside the briefing room.
“I’d hoped to make it to your morning briefing,” he told her. “I was detained.”
“We do have some new leads since my report. Sir, I’d like to check on Detective Yancy’s progress with the witness if I could update you on the way.”
He nodded, fell into step beside her.
“An opera lover,” he said when she’d brought him up to speed. “My wife enjoys the opera.”
“Yes, sir.”
He smiled a little. “I actually enjoy some opera myself. He may have gotten too clever with his fake addresses, using opera houses.”
“Houses may be one of the keys, Commander. I don’t know much about opera, but I take it they deal with death a lot of the time. The psychic in Romania talked about his house of death. Psychics are often cryptic or their visions symbolic.”
“And we should consider he might have, or have had, some more direct connection with opera. A performer, or backer, a crew member, musician.”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Phantom of the Opera. A story about a disfigured man who haunts an opera house, and kills,” Whitney explained. “His killing place may be a former opera house or theater.”
“We’re pursuing that. There are other areas we may pursue. I’d like to discuss them with you and Mira at some point, if those areas seem relevant.”
“We’ll work around you.”
He went with her to Yancy’s division. Eve wondered if he registered the fact that wherever he passed, cops came to attention…or if it was something he no longer noticed.
Eve saw first that Yancy was alone at his workstation, and second that his eyes were closed, and he was wearing a headset. Though she’d have preferred the commander had been elsewhere when she was forced to berate a detective, it didn’t stop her from giving Yancy’s desk chair a good, solid kick.
He jerked up. “Hey, watch where you’re—Lieutenant.” Annoyance cleared when he saw Eve, then shifted over into something closer to anxiety when he spotted Whitney. “Commander.”
He came out of the chair.
“Where the hell is my witness?” Eve demanded. “And just how often do you take a little nap on the department’s time?”
“I wasn’t napping. Sir. It’s a ten-minute meditation program,” he explained as he pulled off the headset. “Trina needed a break, so I suggested she go down to the Eatery or take a short walk around. At this point in the work, it’s easy to stop guiding and start directing. Meditating for a few minutes clears my head.”
“Your methods generally produce results,” Whitney commented. “But in this case, ten minutes is an indulgence we can’t afford.”
“Understood, sir, but, respectfully, I know when a wit needs a breather. She’s good.” Yancy glanced at Dallas. “She’s really good. She knows faces because it’s her business to evaluate them. She’s already given me more than most wits manage, and in my opinion, after this break she’s going to nail it solid. Take a look.”
He’d used both a sketch pad and the computer. Eve stepped around to get a closer look at both. “That’s good,” she agreed.
“It’ll be better. She keeps changing the eyes and the mouth, and that’s because she’s second-and third-guessing. She can’t pull out the eye color, but the shape? The shape of the eyes, the face, even the way the ears lie, she doesn’t deviate.”
The face was rounded, the ears lying neatly, and on the small side. The eyes were slightly hooded and held a pleasant expression. The mouth, a little thin on top, was curved in a hint of a smile. Short-necked, Eve noted, so that the head sat low on the shoulders.
All in all, it struck her as a bland, nondescript kind of face. The sort that would be easily overlooked. “Nothing stands out about him,” she commented. “Except his absolute ordinariness.”
“Exactly. And that makes it harder for the wit. Harder to remember details about somebody who doesn’t really have anything about him that catches the eye. She was more into how he dressed, how he spoke, how he smelled, that sort of thing. They made the impression. Took her a while to start building the face beyond that. But she’s good.”
“So are you,” Eve complimented. “Give me a copy of this for now. Get me the finished when you have it.”
“Some of these details are going to change.” Still, Yancy ordered a print. “I think the nose is going to be shorter, and—” He held up a hand as if signaling himself to stop. “And that’s why we needed a break from each other. I’m projecting.”
“This gives us a base. When you’re done with Trina, I’d like you to arrange for her to be taken back to my residence. She’s expected.”
“Will do.”
“Nice work, Detective.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
As they left, Whitney glanced at Eve. “Check with him in an hour. If there isn’t any change, we’ll release this image. W
e need it made public as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Contact me when you want to meet with me and Dr. Mira,” he added, then peeled off to go his own way.
Eve didn’t care how cold it was, it was good to be back on the street. She’d had enough, for the time being, of desk work and comp work and briefings. It was true enough she needed some thinking time, just her and her murder board, but right now, she needed to move.
“It’s hard to believe we’ve only been on this since Friday night.” Peabody hunched her shoulders as they walked to BodyWorks. “It feels like we’ve been working this one for a month.”
“Time’s relative.” Ariel Greenfeld, Eve thought, missing for approximately eighteen hours.
“McNab humped on this until nearly three this morning. I fizzled just past midnight, but he was revved. Something about e-juice, I guess. Of course, when he’s really humping the comp, he doesn’t have any left to, you know, hump yours truly. This is the longest we’ve gone since cohabbing not using the bed—or some other surface—for recreational purposes.”
“One day,” Eve said as she cast her eyes to heaven, “one fine day you’ll be able to go a full week without inserting an image of you and McNab having sex into my head.”
“Well, see, that’s what I’m worried about.” They passed into the lobby of the center, flashed badges on the way to the elevator. “You think maybe the bloom’s wearing off? That we’re losing the spark? It’s actually been since Wednesday night that we—”
“Go no further with that sentence.” Eve ordered the elevator to take them to the main gym. “You can’t go, what, four days without worrying about blooms and sparks?”
“I don’t know. I guess. Well, no,” Peabody decided, “because four days is basically a work week if you’re not a cop. If you and Roarke went a week, wouldn’t you wonder?”
Eve wasn’t sure this had ever been an issue. She only shook her head and stepped off the elevator.
“So you and Roarke haven’t gotten snuggly since we caught this?”
Eve stopped, turned. Stared. “Detective Peabody, are you actually standing there asking me if I’ve had sex in the last few days?”