Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(94)

“To pizza and wine,” he said a smile.

“To that. To each other.” She carried the bottle to the table, poured him a glass, poured herself half of one. “And that’s enough sloppy stuff. Let’s eat.”





19

She could take a half hour, Eve told herself, with him, pizza, and wine. And talk about anything but murder.

“So the youth center, it’s coming along?”

“It is. We should do a walk-through, you and I. You may have some ideas on the finer details as we move in that direction.”

“They won’t care about that—the kids who come there. They’ll care about having a roof over their head, and a decent bed to sleep in, a decent meal.”

Which should include pizza regularly, Eve thought.

“I know it’s more than that,” she added. “The counseling, the education, and the training, the chance to become something other than a punching bag or an addict or a petty criminal. They’re not going to care what color you paint the walls, or the shape of a sofa or table.”

“Perhaps not, but by living in a space that surrounds them with care in those details, they may be more inclined to care how they live, to take care of where they live.”

He brushed his hand over hers. “And some,” he continued, “might make the connection that someone cared enough about them to add the little details.”

“That’s a point. It’s a good point,” she decided. “I can guarantee they are going to care about the size of the screen in the community room, and what vid games they’re allowed to play.” She smiled as she bit into pizza. “And they’ll bitch about the classes, the assignments, the chores.”

“Which would make them normal, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s exactly right. And that’s what you’re doing. Giving them a chance for normal. It’s big, Roarke. I’d like a walk-through.”

“Good, we’ll set it up. I want, very much, for you to see what it’s becoming.”

She thought of the girls they’d found there—those long-dead girls. And knew he’d always think of them, too. “When do you figure you’ll open?”

“We’re planning for spring. May, if all continues to go well. We’ve already contracted some of the key staff, and we’re interviewing and vetting others.”

“You move fast, ace.”

“If I didn’t, we might not be sitting here now, having pizza and wine.”

“Sure we would.” She ate another bite. “You’d have caught up with me eventually.”

He laughed, took a second slice. “Your headache’s gone.”

“Yeah, it is.”

And because it was, because of all she had—right here—she added another dollop of wine to her glass and embraced the moment.

After the meal, she went straight to coffee. The work, the job, the hours ahead would be long and tedious. The conclusions her instincts pointed her to had to be set to the side.

Facts and evidence, she reminded herself. The gut wasn’t enough.

“What’s my assignment?” Roarke asked her.

“We’ve culled out names from the gala’s guest and staff lists. Males that fit the elements of Mira’s profile, with a little refining. The probability, given current evidence and statements, runs more than ninety percent he was there. It’s possible he crashed, isn’t on either list, but that’s where we start.”

She ordered the list Peabody’d sent her on her wall screen. “This is my share. I’ve cut down Mira’s age bracket. I’m reasonably sure he’s closer to thirty than fifty, otherwise these individuals run on what she profiled. We’re going to dig down, every name. Family, education, travel, finances, any criminal however small—including traffic violations. Medical that we can get—and for now, no hacking.”

“Lieutenant,” he said with sorrow. “You spoil my fun.”

“For now,” she said again. “We get this list down, I’ll wrestle out a warrant for deeper, for any sealed files, for the works. Connections to theater or screen—anything involving the level of makeup and costuming the UNSUB uses, that’s a big bonus if found. Same with any major interest in e-work.”

“As both of those may simply be a hobby, something that wouldn’t show in the data.”

“That’s it. I’m going to give you the first five.”

“It seems a lot of names for the profile.”

“Some of them were married or cohabbed at the time of the gala, and now aren’t. We’re checking them. Some are staff who, while not assigned specifically to the gala, would have easy access. Peabody added those, and she’s not wrong.”

“I’ll start in my office. I need to multitask for the next hour or so. Then I may join you in here.”

Eve settled into it. It was routine—tedious, but routine—with a rhythm she knew well. Within thirty minutes, she’d eliminated two names, one as she could confirm he’d been in Rio on the night the Patricks had been assaulted, and the second who’d been involved in a vehicular accident the day of the Strazzas’ attack, and was still recovering from a fractured ankle and other injuries.

She moved on, discarding, earmarking for a yet deeper search.