Festive in Death (In Death #39)(65)

She waited while it rose, slow and silent, then drove in.

She wouldn’t bother to roll her eyes at the number of vehicles housed inside. Or just a minor eye roll. All-terrains, sedans, sports cars, muscular trucks, sexy motorcycles.

Some flashy, some classy, some sinewy, some sleek.

She was pretty sure there had been some refinements since she’d last been inside—she knew there hadn’t been a slot labeled DLE, the make of her car, the last time she’d been in here. No question there’d been some additions because the man purchased vehicles the way others might buy socks.

She pulled into the slot as the computer asked politely,

Do you wish to close the main garage doors, residence, at this time?

“Yeah, yeah, do that.”

She got out, glanced around at Roarke’s shiny toys, and spotted a pristine work counter—who else had a pristine garage?—with a computer, an AutoChef and a friggie.

“A garage you could live in. Who else?”

Inspired, she crossed to the counter, narrowed her eyes at the computer.

“Computer on.”

It sprang immediately to life.

Good morning, Dallas, Lieutenant, Eve.

“Yeah, yeah. Can you interface with my home office computer?”

Affirmative. Would you like to do so at this time?

“Yeah, I’d like to do so. Open files on Ziegler, Trey, subset Interviews. Create new doc on Prinze, Felicity, crossed with Copley, John Jake.”

Working . . .

“Pull up any incoming communication or data from Peabody, Detective Delia.”

Secondary command in progress. Initial command complete.

“Why doesn’t my office comp work this fast?”

Would you like a scan and diagnosis of this specific computer?

“What’s the point? Negative.”

Acknowledged. Secondary command complete.

“Give me Peabody’s data first. On screen.”

Data on screen.

She’d been right on Felicity’s age. Barely twenty-one. Born Shipshewana, Indiana, one of three offsprings—all female—of Jonas and Zoe Prinze, with Felicity being the youngest. No criminal, not even a little dent, unless she counted two minor traffic violations during the teenage years.

And she didn’t.

Graduated high school, and Peabody had added the shiny bits. Homecoming queen, captain of the cheerleaders, the lead in the school musical two years running, president of the theater club.

Two years community college, majoring in theater.

Employed, part-time, for three years at Go-Hop as a server.

Relocated to New York, resided for seven months in Alphabet City—a flop, Eve noted, reading Peabody’s research on the address—that rented by the hour, day, or week.

Employed as a dancer, Starshine Club, for three months. Current residence, the big, shiny apartment overlooking the river.

No marriages, no cohabs, no current employment.

A corn-fed, naive kid, potentially with some talent, with big dreams, who got herself scooped up by some guy twice her age. Who was potentially a killer.

Eve added her notes, compiling them into a report.

As she read it over, refined it, the side door opened.

Roarke walked in.

“Did you get lost?” He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re working in the garage?”

“It was here, and it’s quiet, and I only needed a few minutes.” She glanced at her wrist unit, winced. “Or so.”

She’d refine later, if necessary, but shot the report to Peabody, to Mira, and as an update to her commander.

“That’s it. I’m going in. Why are there more trees?”

“Than what?”

“Than we already had. Guys were hauling in more trees when I drove up. Why?”

“Because it’s Christmas.” He took her hand. “If you need more time, you don’t have to take it in the garage.”

“It’s nice in here. A vehicle palace with technology and snacks. But that’s it for now.”

She could always slip away later, squeeze in a little more.

“All right then. Want a lift back?”

He gestured to a short line of motorized carts.

“I’ve got legs.”

“Which I admire as often as possible.”

Still holding her hand, he led her out the side door. “We’ll stroll back then, and you can tell me about the side piece.”

“She’s pitiful. No, that’s not fair.” She stuck her free hand in her pocket to warm it. “She’s a kid, Roarke, twenty-one and painfully naive. From someplace out in corn land. Shipshewana, Indiana.”

“Shipshewana? Are you winding me up?”

“It’s an actual town, I looked it up. If you consider a place about one square mile a town. Barely six hundred people live there. A lot of them farm. They probably have more cows than people there.”

The thought of which gave her the serious creeps.

“So our young side piece bid farewell to Shipshewana, came to the bright lights, big city, and ended up in a river-view apartment, being kept by a married man.”

“That’s the short of it,” she agreed. “The long’s got more gray areas. She’s desperate to be a Broadway star. Came to New York for those bright lights, and ended up working at a strip joint.”