Creation in Death (In Death #25)(96)

“No.” Yancy just shook his head. “No way. Trina had him. This is a relative, maybe. Brother, cousin. But that’s not the guy Trina gave me, or the one Ms. Pruitt described from Tiffany’s.”

“Okay. Morris, you all right working on the meds alone?”

“I can handle it.”

“You get a hit, I get the buzz. Let’s move it, people. Ten minutes at my back. And nobody comes inside until I give the signal.”

“Sarifina York’s memorial is being held there,” Roarke reminded her. “It would be completely appropriate for me to pay my respects.”

Eve gave it a moment’s thought. “Ten minutes at my back,” she repeated. “Unless I signal sooner, you come on in to pay your respects. Get us that warrant, Feeney.”

“Vest and wire,” Roarke said, firmly.

“Yeah, yeah. In the garage. In five.” She strode out to prep.

When she pulled out of the garage, Eve’s instincts were tuned for a tail. And her mind was on Ariel.

S he prayed to pass out, but the pain wouldn’t allow the escape. Even when he stopped, finally stopped, agony kept her above the surface. She tried to think of her friends, her family, of the life she’d led before, but it all seemed so distant, so separate. Nothing that had been would come clearly into focus.

There was only now, only the pain, only him.

And the time ticking away on the wall screen. Seven hours, twenty-three minutes, and the seconds clicking by.

So Ariel thought of how she would make him pay for taking away everything she had. Her life, her sense of order, her pleasures, her hopes. If only she could get free, she would make him pay for stripping her bare.

Talk, she reminded herself. Find a way to make him talk again.

Make him talk, and live.

E ve didn’t spot a tail, and found that it pissed her off. What if he’d changed his mind about trying for her? If she’d somehow scared him off, and even now he was moving in on another innocent woman?

“At location,” she said. “And heading in. Feeney, make me smile.”

“Warrant’s coming through.”

“All right. Keep the chatter down. Ten minutes, on the mark.”

Studying the building, she crossed the sidewalk. Three floors, including basement. Riot bars, solid security. Solid, if faded, red brick. Two entrances in the front, and two in the back, with emergency exits front and back, top floor.

If Ariel was inside, odds were on the basement. Main level was public, third level public and staff.

She climbed the steps, pressed the buzzer.

The door was opened moments later by a dark-skinned woman in dignified black. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

Eve held up her badge. “Sarifina York.”

“Yes, we’re gathering in the Tranquility Room. Please come in.”

Eve stepped in, scanned the area. The wide central hallway split the main floor in two parts. The air smelled of flowers and polish. She could see through the open double pocket doors to her left that several people had already arrived to memorialize Sarifina.

“I’ll need to speak to whoever’s in charge.”

“Of the service?”

“Of the business.”

“Oh. Of course. Mr. Travers is with a client just at the moment, but—”

“What about Mr. Lowell?”

“Mr. Lowell isn’t in residence. He lives in Europe. But Mr. Travers is head of operations.”

“When’s the last time Mr. Lowell’s been here?”

“I couldn’t really say. I’ve been with Lowell’s for two years, and haven’t met him. I believe you could say he’s essentially retired. Would you like to speak with Mr. Travers?”

“Yeah. You’ll have to interrupt him. This is official police business.”

“Of course.” As if she heard the phrase “official police business” every day, the woman smiled serenely as she gestured. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you to one of the waiting rooms upstairs.”

Eve looked into the Tranquility Room as she passed. There were photographs of Sarifina, the flowers were plentiful, and the music was the retro big band sound the deceased had loved.

“What’s in the basement?” Eve asked as they went upstairs.

“It’s a work area. Preparation areas. Many of the bereaved request or require viewings of those they’ve lost.”

“Embalming? Cosmetics?”

“Yes.”

“How many work down there, routinely?”

“We have a mortician, a technician, and a stylist on staff.”

Stylist, Eve thought. No point in being unfashionably dead.

The woman led her to a small waiting room full of quiet, flowers, and soft-cushioned furniture. “I’ll tell Mr. Travers you’re waiting. Please be comfortable.”

Alone, Eve wandered the room. Not here, she thought. It didn’t make sense for him to have brought Ariel and the others here, where work went on throughout the building. Too many people. Too much business.

He wasn’t part of a troupe, but a solo act.

But this was a conduit, she was sure of it. Just as she was damn sure Robert Lowell, or whatever he was currently calling himself, wasn’t in London.

Travers came in. He was tall, reed thin, with a comfortable if somber face. If Eve had been casting funeral directors, he’d have been her top pick.