Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(93)

“Enough for him to buy a house—something private,” Peabody said. “Something with a basement or attic or an area he could use as a prison.”

“It’s going to narrow the search. He moved in before Halloween, and she died September eighteen. That’s the window now.”

She signaled to Jenkinson as she headed back to the van. When she stood on the sidewalk, thinking before she briefed them, Roarke, Feeney, and McNab got out to join them.

“He moved out before Halloween. Neighbors don’t know where, but the woman across the hall saw him walking, she thinks maybe to work, after he moved out. He didn’t move too close or they’d probably have seen him more than one time. They said he liked taking walks, and they have a dog, so walks.”

She scanned the buildings up and down the block. “It’s not going to be too close to his old place, but close enough he can still walk to work if he wants—and it’s familiar—the Lower West is familiar. He got a place—the private residence—between September eighteenth and the end of October.”

“Mommy left him some scratch,” Feeney put in.

“I’m betting on it. Finds himself a house. Could be a warehouse, a storage facility, but why? Why not be comfortable? House is still first on the list, but the search is for ownership to begin in September.”

“I’ll adjust it,” Roarke told her.

“If we hit on anything tonight, I’ll pull you back.”

“Are you working from home?” Peabody asked her.

“Central for now. I need to—”

“Central it is.” Jenkinson jabbed a finger. “Boss, you’re going to work it, we’re going to work it. That girl’s been locked up a damn week. We got a chance to find her tonight? I want to take it.”

“Go get your burgers, and I’ll keep you in the loop.”

Even as Jenkinson folded his arms, put on his just-try-to-budge-me face, Roarke stepped in.

“It happens we own a pub right down the block there and around the corner. I’ll wager no one’s had a meal as yet, so I can work on this search, the lieutenant can do what she must, and all can have that meal. Together,” he added with a glance at Eve. “So it saves time when we locate him.”

Feeney punched Roarke’s shoulder. “The Dubliner? That’s yours? Why don’t you tell me these things?” he asked Eve. “Prime eats, prime brew. It makes sense, kid. Good time management.”

“Fine. Leave the rides here—On Duty. He’s not on this block. If we don’t hit by the time we’ve had the prime eats, everybody goes home.”

“Hey. What if he’s still at the lab?”

Eve flicked Peabody a glance. “He clocked out at sixteen-forty-three. I checked with security before we moved out.”

“Oh. Well. Sure.”

“So. We’ve got ourselves a good deal.” Jenkinson looked back at Roarke. “I don’t guess they have actual cow meat.”

“They got it,” Feeney answered first. “Costs your right nut, but they got it. They do one hell of a fish and chips.”

“My pub, my treat,” Roarke said as they began to walk.

“You should come on ops more often,” Jenkinson told him.

“Yeah, he’s got nothing better to do. We’re going to need a table where we can bounce things around as they come. And I need to update my—”

“We’ve a nice roomy snug.” Roarke snagged Eve’s hand before she could stop him. “Not to worry.”

“Roomy and snug are opposites.”

Feeney just shook his head at Jamie. “You’ve got a lot to learn, boy.”

They rounded the corner. “So, can I get a brew?”

“No,” Eve and Feeney said together.

“You’re underage. Too young,” Feeney said, “and you know it.”

“If we’re working, nobody gets a brew.”

At Eve’s statement, Feeney sighed. “That’s a damn shame.”

People packed the outdoor tables, and the interior hopped. The music piping through the speakers plastered a grin on Feeney’s face. And the air smelled of prime eats.

A waitress with a bright red braid and a face full of freckles paused with a tray of pints on her hip.

“Good evening to you! We’ve got you all set up in the snug, sir. I’ll take you back as soon as I’ve served these pints.”

“I know the way, thanks.”

“Well then, I’ll come around and take your orders before you know it.”

“Is that accent real?” Eve wondered as Roarke wove the way through tables and around a long, busy bar.

“It would be, yes. She’s from Cork if I remember it right.”

He opened a door, herded them in, closed it.

The noise level dropped by half.

It proved a roomy snug, with what looked like three smaller tables pushed together to make one. The space included a one-person workstation, a wall screen, a wing chair, and a low sofa—the sort that whispered: Nap here.

The table already held two boards with rounds of brown bread, dishes of butter, three large bottles of water, and wedges of lemons and limes.

“Okay, I get roomy.” Jamie immediately attacked the bread. “Why is it a snug?”