Ceremony in Death (In Death #5)(49)

“What about your place, Peabody? What’s that?”

“Temporary,” Peabody said definitely. “Dallas, your car unit isn’t cooperating here. I should be able to transfer data to —” She broke off as Eve leaned over, smacked the dash above the car screen. An image popped on, wobbling drunkenly. “That’s some better,” Peabody decided and requested a run on Alban.

Alban — no known alternate name — born 3-22-2020 Omaha, Nebraska.

“Funny,” Eve interrupted, “he didn’t look corn fed.”

ID number, the computer continued with a definite hiccup in its program, 31666-LRT-99. Parents unknown. Marital status, single. No known means of support. No financial data available.

“Interesting. Sounds like he’s leeching off Selina. Criminal records, all arrests.”

No criminal record.

“Education?”

Unknown.

“Our boy’s wiped, or had somebody wipe records,” Eve told Peabody. “You don’t get to be nearly forty years old without generating more data than this. He’s got connections somewhere.”

She needed Feeney, she thought grumpily. Feeney could tickle the computer and trick additional data. Instead, she was going to have to go to Roarke and add another layer to his involvement.

“Well, shit.” She pulled up in front of Spirit Quest, frowned at the Closed sign on the door. “Run up for a look-see, Peabody. Maybe she’s inside.”

“Got an umbrella or a rain shield?”

Eve arched a brow. “Are you trying to be funny?”

Peabody only sighed, then pushed out of the car. She plodded and splashed through the rain, peered into windows. Shivering a little, she turned back, shook her soaking head, then groaned when Eve jerked a thumb toward the apartment over the shop. Resigned, Peabody trudged around the side, climbed a set of rickety metal stairs. Moments later, she was back, streaming water.

“No answer,” she told Eve. “Minimal security. Unless you count the swatch of Saint-John’s-wort over the entrance.”

“She has a swatch of warts? That’s disgusting.”

“Not warts.” Despite her wet uniform and dripping hair, Peabody indulged in a good laugh. “It’s a plant. Saint-John’s-wort.” Amused enough, she dug into her pocket for her sprig. “Like this. It’s for protection. Guards against evil.”

“You carry plants in your pocket, Officer?”

“I do now.” Peabody pushed it back in her pocket. “Want some?”

“No, thanks, I prefer trusting my weapon to guard against evil.”

“I consider this my clutch piece.”

“Whatever works for you.” Eve scanned the area. “Let’s try that cafe place across the street. Maybe they know why she’s closed in the middle of a business morning.”

“Maybe they’ve got decent coffee,” Peabody said and sneezed twice, hard. “If I catch a cold, I’ll kill myself. It takes me weeks to throw one of those suckers off.”

“Maybe you need a plant to cart around that wards off common germs.” Leaving it at that, Eve hopped out of the car, coded the locks, and jogged across the street into Coffee Ole.

The stab at a Mexican theme wasn’t bad, she decided. Bright colors — heavy on orange — gave it a sunny appearance even on a filthy day. It might have fallen far short of Roarke’s gorgeous villa on the west coast of Mexico, but it had a certain tacky charm with its plastic flowers and papier-mache bulls. Bright mariachi music piped through the speakers.

Either the rain or the ambiance had brought in a crowd. But as Eve scanned the room, she noted that the people packed around tables weren’t wolfing down plates of enchiladas. Most were huddled over single stingy cups of what smelled remotely like overboiled soy coffee.

“Baseball’s closing in on the league titles, isn’t it, Peabody?”

Peabody sneezed again. “Baseball? I guess. Arena ball’s my game.”

“Uh-huh. Seems to me there a pennant race going on. Pivotal game today. I imagine lots of money’s going to change hands.”

Peabody’s head was starting to feel stuffy — a very bad sign — but it was still clear enough for her to latch on. “You figure this is a front, an illegal betting parlor.”

“Just a hunch. We may be able to use it.” She sidled up to the counter, tagged a harassed-looking man. Short of stature, dark of complexion, weary of eye.

“Eat in or carry out?”

“Neither,” she began, then relented as she heard Peabody sniffle. “One coffee, for her. And a couple of answers.”

“I’ve got coffee.” He swiveled around to plug thick dark brew into a cup barely bigger than a thimble. “I got no answers.”

“Maybe you should hear the questions.”

“Lady, I got a full house here. I serve coffee. I got no time for conversation.” He dumped the cup on the counter and would have backed away, but Eve snagged his wrist. “What are the house odds on the game today?”

His eyes shifted left and right before settling on her face. But he’d spotted Peabody and her uniform. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know, if me and my pal here settle in for a few hours, your business is going into the recycler. Personally, I don’t give a good damn about your business, any of your business. But I could.” Still holding his wrist, she turned her head and stared hard at two of the men seated at the counter.