Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(19)

“One more thing,” Eve said as Lorraine started out. “Do you have any business with or knowledge of the WIN Group?”

“Win? As in win or lose?” She pursed her lips at Eve’s nod. “It sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it. I don’t recall ever doing any work for or on them.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

She made the rounds with the rest of the staff, with Peabody when her partner returned with the log copy. While the statements filled in the picture of a woman well-liked by her coworkers, there were no real revelations. She couldn’t claim surprise when the warrant bogged in legal mires, but she left the offices with every confidence Yung would find a way.

And she had one lead out of it.

“We’ll track down this Candida Mobsley, but I want to go by the crime scene first, and I want to follow up with the two wits and a talk with Whitestone’s partners. Start that search for the snatch vehicle.”

She pulled away from the curb. By the time she’d maneuvered the handful of blocks, Peabody was asleep with her PPC in her hand.

Eve jabbed her with an elbow.

“Yes, sir! What?”

“There’s a deli up the block there. Go, fuel up. Get me whatever.”

“Yeah, okay. Sorry. We hung with Mavis and her gang until about midnight. It’s catching up with me.”

“Take a booster if you need it.”

Peabody scrubbed her hands over her face, and yawning, crawled out of the car. Eve skirted around the hood, walked in the opposite direction through the insistent sleet to stand in front of the building where Marta Dickenson died.

It looked good, she decided, even in the crappy weather. Dignified, old-school, and very, very fresh. She imagined the owners would have little problem filling those spaces.

If they ignored the small detail of murder.

Standing in the sleet, she closed her eyes.

Park the van or the four-wheel, because a mini struck her as absurd for abduction, near the front of the office building. She has to come out sooner or later. Waiting’s just part of the job. Security cams don’t scope all the way to the sidewalk. Let her come out.

Get out of the vehicle, she imagined. Let her walk by, step in behind her, stun her, muffle her, muscle her in the back in seconds. One in the driver’s seat, one in the back with her. Hold a hand over her mouth, hold her down when she struggles or makes noise. Short drive. One gets out, unlocks the door—one way or the other—comes back.

Muscle her inside. It wouldn’t take more than seconds.

How wasn’t hard, Eve decided. How seemed pretty straightforward. The why was trickier.

“Lieutenant.”

She turned, watched Officer Carmichael approach, his heavy uniform coat wet, his face pink from the cold.

“I saw Detective Peabody in the deli. We were about to go in for a meal break.”

“Whatcha got?”

“Not a lot. Nobody we’ve talked to heard anything. We dug up one possible wit, other side of the street, fourth-floor apartment, facing this way. She thinks, maybe, she saw a van parked over here last night.”

“What kind of van?”

“Dark,” he said with a wry twist of his lips. “Maybe black, maybe dark blue, maybe dark gray. No idea of make, model, plates. Her privacy screen hung up, and she was trying to fix it, thinks she saw a van over here. And she says she’s sure the lights were on in the lower apartment. She noticed that especially as she’s been watching the rehab progress. She figured the van was one of the crew, working late.”

“What time?”

“About ten-thirty, she says, give or take a few minutes. She messed with the screen awhile, then went for her cohab. He was sleeping in his chair, kicked off watching the screen. I talked to him via ’link. He doesn’t remember one way or the other. We knocked on a lot of doors. In a neighborhood like this, people mostly open up for the cops. But a lot of people were out during this canvass. We’ll follow up in a few hours.”

“Good enough. How did Turney do?”

Carmichael smiled a little. “She don’t give up.”

“Take her on the second pass if she wants it.” Let her see, Eve thought. Homicide, like most cop work, was walking, waiting, asking questions, and paperwork.

She walked down the stairs, broke the seal, entered the apartment.

Nothing to see, really. Same as it had been, but for the fine layer of dust left by the sweepers, and that on-the-edge-of-nasty chemical smell that clung to the air.

They didn’t take her farther than the front living space. No need to drag it out. Privacy-screened windows—lights showed through, but not movement, not activity. Good soundproofing. A dozen people might have walked by on the sidewalk, they’d never have heard her scream.

They took her briefcase, that was more than show, more than cover. That was part of the job. Take her work, her files, her memo book, her tablet, whatever she’d carried.

The woman had two kids at home. She wouldn’t have played the hero. And for what? Numbers, someone else’s money? She’d have told them whatever they wanted to know, if she knew it.

She didn’t fight back. Did she believe they’d let her go if she told them, gave them, cooperated.

“Makes the most sense,” Eve murmured as she circled the room. “Tell us, give us, what we want, and it doesn’t have to get ugly.”