Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(61)

“That’s not really the word. Well, okay, I’m disappointed we didn’t find Hobe and Covino in the basement so we could get them out. I’m not disappointed Jim Mosebly isn’t a whacked-out, mommy-freak killer.”

“He strikes me as a very good man. One still carrying some of the scars from the era and its mores when he grew up.”

“Yeah, strikes me the same. Why in hell did some people get so bent because somebody fell for, wanted to marry, or just wanted to bang somebody with the same body parts?”

“Some always have and always will find ways to be intolerant of what they consider other, or outside their version of the norm.”

“Well, the world would be better off if more people minded their own business instead of trying to run other people’s lives. Anyway.” She shook it off. “Eliminating Mosebly’s another step, but it doesn’t get me closer to finding those two women.”

When he nudged her along, she looked over at him. “Did you forget where you parked?”

“I didn’t, no. We’re walking on a very nice evening on the edge between spring and summer. It occurs to me Mosebly came to New York all those years ago for much the same reasons you and I did. We were all bearing scars, and all came here to find our place.”

“Down there?” She gestured down the side street. “That was Elder’s place. Now the guy who loved her lives alone. Hobe, down that way, Covino, up and over that way. Hobe, no real close family ties, and she liked living alone. Opposite for Covino. But they intersect, those three women. Probably passed each other on the street more than once. Maybe waited on line at the same time in some shop. Now two of them, unless I’m way off the mark, are being held in the same place by the same man for the same reason.”

“You’re not off the mark.” He steered her around the corner, kept going.

“We might run into Jenkinson and Reineke,” Eve speculated as people bustled by—heading home, heading to dinner, heading to one more shop. “Maybe they’ll get a hit. Peabody and McNab are going to do a canvass so…”

She trailed off when she registered where they were. A few steps from the pizza joint, the one where she’d had her first slice on her first day in New York.

“You’re always thinking,” she murmured.

“Of you.” He brushed a kiss over the top of her head. “We’ll have ourselves a meal, a carafe of wine, and some downtime. And when we get home, you can update your board and book.”

Instead of turning to the door, she turned into him.

“Thanks.” And kissed him. “Thank you.”

She walked into the scents—yeast and sauce and spices and grilled meat—the noise of voices, a squeal from some kid, the clatter of dishes—and felt the tension melt from the back of her neck.

A waitress hustled right up to them. “Hi. Good to see you again. Your booth’s ready.”

“You called ahead.”

“Always thinking,” he answered as they slid across from each other into the booth. “Do you need a menu?”

“Nope. Large pie, pepperoni,” Eve said to the waitress.

“Large?”

Eve smiled at Roarke. “Did you want one, too?”

He smiled back. “A carafe of the house red, a bottle of sparkling water.”

“Get that going for you.”

As the waitress hurried away, Roarke leaned over, took both Eve’s hands. “Now, tell me, as I remain fascinated, about this real estate deal.”

She laughed. “Just a wild hare.”

“That includes three words I’m very fond of. Real estate and deal.”

“Okay, well, there’s this building.” She rattled off the address. “You don’t already own it—I checked.”

“All right then. Should I?”

“Commercial street level—slick bar and a tony-looking salon. Apartments above. Eight units a level, six levels.”

“Square footage, exterior material, original build date, and dates of major rehabs?”

“Well, jeez, if you’re going to have all kinds of questions.”

“There are countless more, but I can find the answers.”

The waitress came back with the water, the wine, glasses, poured both.

“Brick,” Eve said as she picked up her wine. “Brick, and it looked pre-Urban to me. Crappy security on the apartment entry door, crap elevator—single. Decent soundproofing. That’s all I got.”

“I’ll get the rest—after you tell me why this property interests you.”

She sat back, gestured with the wine. “I thought about how if you bought it, you could kick out the fuckhead who owns the bar and lives above it.”

“Could I?” Amused, Roarke gestured back at her. “Has he committed a crime?”

“If being a fuckhead was a crime, I’d have to lock up half of New York. And occasionally arrest myself. He’s Covino’s ex-boyfriend, except he only qualified on the boyfriend scale in her mind. He’s a smarmy—it’s the word—womanizing, self-important fuckhead.”

“Ah, you said she’d planned a trip, and the boyfriend, such as he was, canceled—on the night she was taken. This would be that fuckhead.”