Brotherhood in Death (In Death #42)(95)

“Give Yancy a yo for me.”

They parted ways.

Eve made her way to Yancy’s division, found him at his desk, frowning at his screen. He glanced up, gave her a distracted look. “Hey.”

“Hey. And a yo from Peabody. Have you been able to connect with Laurel Esty?”

“You just missed her, and her friend Reb. Connect. Yeah, you could say that. I’ve got a date after shift.”

“With Esty?”

“It just happened.” He gave a puzzled laugh to go with the distracted look. “She said how maybe I’d take her out for a drink, and I guess I said sure. Then she said, ‘Mag, how about seven?’ So.”

Eve lifted her eyebrows. Peabody’s description—the hand fanning over the heart—hit the mark. The police artist had a lot of messy dark curls around a face that slipped along an interesting line between pretty and sexy.

“So,” Eve repeated. “I take it she wasn’t nervous about coming in.”

“Didn’t seem to be. Like some, she didn’t think she remembered or saw what she remembered and saw. It’s just a matter of easing them along. Huh. Straight wit, right? And not even because she didn’t witness a crime. Just got a glimpse at some art that pertains.”

“That’s right.” Since it was there, Eve leaned a hip on the corner of his desk. “No ethical lines crossed, if that’s what you’re asking, by buying her that drink. How much did you ease along out of her?”

“Besides her ’link numbers and the fact she’s not in a relationship?” He grinned now. “I think I replicated the art, as close as I can without seeing it myself. Used a regular sketch pad. I was about to transfer it to the comp and send it.”

“Do that, but let’s see it now.”

He opened a pad, flipped up a page. “I started with the whole works, as that’s how she saw it. The five women together.”

“Says unity, doesn’t it?” Eve studied the portrait of the women, shoulder to shoulder. “Downing—the wit knew her. But those are decent sketches of MacKensie and of Su—and she didn’t know them. Makes me think we’ll have some luck with facial rec on the others.”

“Factoring in that this is an approximation of an artist’s interpretation. The two unidentified—this one’s young. Early twenties tops, to my eye. And the other more mature. Mid-forties or more.”

“The youngest in the middle. It’s . . . like they’re supporting her.”

“Might be.” He frowned, studying his own work. “Might be,” he repeated, “the way she’s centered. I did individuals of the faces, but Laurie was clearest on Downing. Like you said, she knew that one, saw her off and on, talked to her. I can run the face rec with them.”

Eve started to say she’d do it herself, then backtracked. More hands, quicker work. “Appreciate it.”

“All in a day’s. Now the other painting?”

He flipped through his sketches of the faces, stopped on a study of six male figures, faces masks of evil and agony, falling toward a sea of flame. More flames shot out of the house in the background.

“It’s dark work,” Yancy said.

Eve took the pad from him, studied it up close. He’d been able to draw more details out of Esty, she noted. The house stood three stories, and sprawled some. Flames striking out of the windows lit what looked like brick. It didn’t strike her as a contemporary structure, but, despite the fire, seemed old in that rich sense. A wealthy house.

One she thought she’d know when she saw it.

Just as she recognized the men behind the demonic faces.

“Edward Mira, Jonas Wymann, William Stevenson—all dead, though Stevenson’s been that way for a while. Ruled self-termination, but we’ll take another look. Frederick Betz, currently missing. Marshall Easterday, trembling in his house, and Ethan MacNamee, currently alive and well in Glasgow, with the locals keeping an eye out. This is good work, Yancy.”

“We do what we do. Laurie said I got it, and I don’t think it was just because she was hitting on me.”

Eve flipped back through, studied the individual sketches of the women, and thought they had a good shot at IDing them. Better than fifty-fifty.

“Send me everything. If you get any hits on the women, I know when you do.”

“You got it.”

Eve went back to Homicide, arriving in time to hear Baxter ragging Jenkinson over his choice of tie.

“How can you wear purple and gold with that shade of brown suit?”

“The tie says it all.”

“It says I left my taste at home. At least you could think about color families and proper contrast.”

“Gotta take some fashion risks,” Jenkinson said, just to rag back. “Yo, Trueheart, I got a source on these. He’ll make you a nice deal if you want to polish up your detective wardrobe.”

“Thanks, Jenkinson, but I’ve got the one your wife gave me last night as a thank-you gift.”

“Thinks he can be a smart-ass now. Hey, boss. What do you think of my tie?”

“Jenkinson, I try not to think about your new tie fetish.”

“Just adding color to a dark world. Show the LT your socks, Reineke.”

“I don’t want to see—” She broke off when Reineke shot his foot out from behind his desk and showed off red socks shocked with blue lightning bolts.