Abandoned in Death (In Death, #54)(94)

“A cozy sort of place,” Roarke told him. “And private. Well back in the day a place where those who didn’t want to be seen lifting a pint could drink. An old tradition, mostly abandoned now, but I liked the idea of it for this place.”

“Frosty.” He slathered butter on the bread, devoured it, then grinned at his godfather. “Prime.”

Eve sat, took out her PPC, and got to work.

“I can write it up.”

She shook her head at Peabody. “I’ve got it.”

“Then can I take five minutes to consult with McNab on the tile so we can put the order in and not break the sacred pinky swear?”

Without looking up, Eve held up five fingers while the other cops—and the intern—talked about the menu.

The waitress popped in. “I’m Morah, and Jack—who’ll be along—and I will be serving you tonight. Now, what can I get you fine officers of the law to drink this evening?”

“Coffee, black,” Eve said, again without looking up.

As the orders went around and Morah gave her spiel about specials, Jamie dropped into the chair beside Eve.

“So, what’s the story with Quilla?”

“Why?”

“Wondering.”

Now Eve looked up. “You’re too old for her.”

“Come on. Too young for a beer, but too old for the cute girl?”

“Yes. Go away. Working.”

By the time she’d written the report, sent the update to Mira, the commander, and Reo, the waitstaff had not only served the coffee but brought in a coffee service for easy refills. And were busily taking orders.

“And what’s your pleasure tonight, Lieutenant?”

She hadn’t thought about it, or glanced at the menu. “Burger’s good. Burger and fries. Thanks. He’d want top security,” she said to Feeney. “Anyplace he’d use to hold these women, he’d need it secure. Maybe he had a new system put in, or added to one.”

“We can work with that. Jamie, start looking for permits, issued after September eighteenth, on security systems. Start top-line, work down. Stick to the sector, then spread out.”

Eve looked down the table at Roarke, who seemed deep in a conversation with Reineke that didn’t look like cop work.

“The search.”

“It’s running. You should try the fried clam table appetizer,” Roarke advised. “It’s lovely.”

Eve looked at the trio of nearly depleted dishes, considered what clams looked like before frying.

“No. There’s the plumbing angle, too.”

Roarke poured himself more water. “If I wanted to cover my tracks, remain as much off the grid as possible, and needed such things as new security and plumbing, what have you—and had the resources of someone who’d worked with the police for near to four decades—I wouldn’t go through proper channels. If I couldn’t manage the work myself, I’d hire those who wouldn’t quibble about permits and such.”

Jenkinson gestured with a fried clam before he popped it in his mouth. “That’s a point.”

“Crap. It’s a good point.”

So good, she had to stand up and pace.

“Yeah, yeah, he knows how not to leave a trail—or to cover it up, make it hard to spot the tracks. And yeah, he’s worked with cops, observed cops, knows the process. But he’s not a cop. And he’s pretty damn new at being a murderer. He slipped up with the fake nails, then he had to regroup and try sending us in the wrong direction.”

She grabbed her cup, walked over to refill it from the station.

“He slipped up once,” Jenkinson said. “He slipped up somewhere else. We just haven’t hit it yet.”

“Damn right. He’s a creature of habit, a perfectionist, obsessive. He plans and plans—carefully—but the plans have to fit the obsession. He saw these women because of his habits and routines. He likes to walk. He could have seen Covino countless times given where she lives in connection to his apartment, his workplace. The other two, still Lower West, but a longer walk east. Possibly he didn’t spot them until he moved.”

“Putting his new hold farther away from the lab,” Feeney put in.

“He likes to walk, and he’d have more reason to after September, after the break. Now he’s hunting.”

She started to ask Roarke to put the wall screen on so she could bring up a map and look again. And the food came in.

Let it sit, she ordered herself, just let it work around in there until something else breaks through.

For a few minutes while the waitstaff served, the snug turned as noisy as the main pub. And she had to admit, the smell of food—those prime eats—rang all the happy bells in her empty stomach.

She sat again, loaded her food with salt before taking a bite of her burger. She pointed at Feeney, who was digging into his fish and chips. “You know him—work know him. First word that springs to describe him.”

Feeney swirled a forkful of fish in tartar sauce. “Nebbishy—that’s the word.”

“It is?”

“Like, you know, timid on the geek side. You asked.”

“I did. Same, Jenkinson.”

“Reliable. Always came through with the goods. I get the nebbish, but it’s a Yiddish deal that can mean indecisive or awkward. Awkward fits well enough, but not the indecisive part. Timid, awkward yeah, and reliable.”