Delusion in Death (In Death #35)(85)

“Got it.”

Eve checked the time while Peabody made contact. She nodded at the frustration, and yes, deference in Peabody’s tone. Just the right notes.

By the time Peabody finished, Eve managed to squeeze into a street-level spot a half a block from Fisher’s apartment building.

“Just like you said,” Peabody reported. “His schedule’s very tight. Lots of work piled up. He’s taken on some of Joe’s outstanding projects. But, of course, he wants to do everything he can to help. He’ll be there.”

“Okay, we’re going to separate. Talk to the roommate, and whoever she gives you. I want a coworker she was friendly with, hung around with. Get the picture, like we got from the widow.”

“Okay. What are you doing?”

“I’m going back to Central, setting the stage. If you’re not back by the time the Callaways are in, sit tight. Just signal me, and I’ll let you know the play.

“Take the car.”

“Sorry.” Lips pursed, Peabody tapped at her right ear. “I think standing out in the wind before clogged up my ear. Did you say take the car?”

“Keep it up, you’ll be the one hoofing it.”

“I don’t wanna hoof it. But, Dallas, it’s really cold.”

“I have my magic coat.” She opened it enough for Peabody to see the lining.

“Sweet! Like the jacket. Oooh, let me—”

Before Peabody could get her fingers on it, Eve tugged the coat back into place, got out of the car. “If you get anything new, anything useful, pass it to me. Otherwise, just write it up.”

“You’re not really going to walk all the way back, are you?”

“I know how to ride a subway.”

Her coat billowed in the wind as she strode off, and she pulled out her ’link to contact Mira, give her the time, the setup.

“I’ll be there,” Mira assured her. “Do you intend to bring in Agent Teasdale?”

“Why?”

“She’s a steady, unshakable presence, and she’s another woman. He wouldn’t like being outnumbered by women, and at the same time would be supremely confident he can and will outwit and maneuver all of us.”

“That’s a point. I’ll ask if she wants in.” She hesitated at the steps down to the subway, considered the crowds, the noise, the smells. Considered the wind, the cold—and the fact a few thin flakes of snow began to fall.

Opted for the cold wind and the fifteen-minute walk. “I’m on my way in. You can observe with the Callaways if you’ve got time, then I’ll see you about three in the conference room.”

“Where are you?”

“Actually not far from the first crime scene.”

“On foot? It’s miserable out. Take a cab.”

“I feel like the walk. Later.”

People moved fast, heads down. Busy, busy. She smelled the smoky scent of soy dogs, the heady grease of fries, the bitter edge of take-out coffee. She spotted a girl in high boots, a puffy purple coat, and a rainbow of scarves walking a pair of big white dogs. Or they walked her as she trotted to keep up with their manic prance. A sidewalk sleeper bundled in so many layers only his narrowed eyes showed. He hunched on a threadbare blanket against a building and sported a sign announcing the end of days.

She wondered if he heard any coins or credits thunk into his cup with such depressing billing.

She stopped, hunkered down. “If the world’s ending, what do you need money for?”

“Gotta eat, don’t I? Gotta eat. I got a beggar’s license inside my coat.”

“Which coat?” She dug in her pocket, tossed in some change though she figured he’d spend it on brew rather than a bowl of soup. “This your usual spot?”

“No. Buncha people killed right down there. People come to look, maybe they spare some change. Like you. ’Cept cops don’t usually spare some change.”

“Cops don’t usually have it to spare.” She got up, walked on. She passed the bar, resisted the urge to go in. Nothing new to see, she thought. But the sleeper was right. She watched a few people take pictures of the front, a couple more try to see in the window over the door.

Bloody murder always drew a crowd.

She snagged fries and a tube of Pepsi at the next cart—who could resist that smell? And ate her way back to Central as the thin, pretty flakes of snow turned to a bitter, wetter sleet.

She stopped by the bullpen first, noted Baxter’s and Trueheart’s absence, Jenkinson’s and Reineke’s empty desks. She walked over to Sanchez.

“Looks lonely in here.”

“Baxter and Trueheart headed out. Arkansas. Reineke and Jenkinson just left, going to tug a few lines.”

“You and Carmichael are picking up a lot of slack. Anything you need?”

“We’ve got it, LT.”

“Let me know if that changes.”

“The Stewart deal—brother of a vic? He’s wrong, but it’s not connected. We’re sniffing him down on embezzlement, and maybe doing the missing accountant. He looks good for both. Thing is, the sister’s death triggers an automatic inventory of the trust. Last thing he’d want. We don’t like him for the bar.”

“Then get him on the rest.”