Holiday in Death (In Death #7)(17)

Captain Ryan Feeney sat on the end of Eve’s desk and munched on candied almonds. He had the lived-in, vaguely morose face of a basset hound and a wiry thatch of russet hair sprinkled with thin, steely threads of silver. There was a rust-colored splotch on his rumpled shirt — a memory of the bean soup he’d had for lunch — and a small nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving that morning.

He looked harmless.

Eve would have gone through any door with him. And had.

He’d trained her, and taught her. Now as captain of the Electronic Detective Division, he was an invaluable resource to her.

“Wish I could tell you the bauble was a one of a kind.” He popped another nut into his mouth. “Still there’s only a dozen stores in the city that sell it.”

“And how many do we have to trace?”

“Forty-nine of them were sold in the last seven weeks.” He scratched his chin, worrying at the tiny scab. “The pin runs about five hundred. Forty-eight were credit deals, only one cash transaction.”

“That would be him.”

“More than likely.” Feeney pulled out his memo book. “The cash deal was at Sal’s Gold and Silver on Forty-ninth.”

“I’ll check it out, thanks.”

“Nothing to it. Got anything else? McNab’s willing and able.”

“McNab?”

“He liked working with you. The boy’s good and sharp and you could toss him any grunt work.”

Eve considered the young detective with his colorful wardrobe, sharp mind, and smart mouth. “He gives Peabody the fish eye.”

“You don’t think Peabody can handle him?”

Eve frowned, tapped her fingers, shrugged. “Yeah, she’s a big girl, and I could use him. I contacted the victim’s ex-husband. He’s relocated in Atlanta. His alibi for the period in question looks fairly solid, but it wouldn’t hurt to look closer. See if he booked any travel to New York, made any calls to the victim.”

“McNab can do that in his sleep.”

“Tell him to stay awake and do it.” She reached for a disc file, handed it over. “All the data I have on the ex is here. I’ll be running the names of the matches from Personally Yours. I’ll pass those to him after I’ve taken a look.”

“Don’t understand places like that.” Feeney shook his head. “In my day you met women the old-fashioned way. You picked them up in a bar.”

Eve lifted an eyebrow. “Is that how you met your wife?”

He grinned suddenly. “It worked, didn’t it? I’ll pass this on to McNab,” he said as he rose. “Aren’t you off the clock, Dallas?”

“Yeah, just. I think I’ll run those names before I head out.”

“Suit yourself. Me, I’m out of here.” He started for the door, stuffing his bag of nuts into his pocket. “Oh, we’re looking forward to the Christmas party.”

She was already focused on her computer and barely glanced over. “What party?”

“Your party.”

“Oh.” She searched her mind, found it blank as far as parties went. “Yeah, great.”

“Don’t know a thing about it, do you?”

“I must.” And because it was Feeney, she smiled. “It’s just in another compartment. Look, if you see Peabody out in the bullpen, tell her she’s off duty.”

“Will do.”

Party, she thought with a sigh. Every time she turned around, Roarke was giving a party or dragging her off to one. The next thing she knew Mavis would pounce on her about getting her hair done, having face and body work, trying a new outfit designed by her lover Leonardo.

If she had to go to a damn party, why couldn’t she just go as she was?

Because she was Roarke’s wife, she reminded herself. And as such she was expected to attend social functions looking slightly better than a cop with murder on the brain.

But that was… whenever it was. And this was now.

“Computer, list matches through Personally Yours for Hawley, Marianna.”

Working…

Match one of five… Dorian Marcell, single, white, male, age thirty-two.

While the computer listed his statistics, Eve studied the image on screen. A pleasant face — a shy look around the eyes. Dorian liked art, theater, and old videos, claimed to be a romantic at heart looking for a mate for his soul. His hobbies were photography and snowboarding.

Nothing special about Dorian, she thought, but they would see what he’d been up to on the night Marianna had been murdered.

Match two of five… Charles Monroe, single, white, male —

“Whoa, whoa, hold it. Stop.” With a half laugh Eve peered at the face on screen. “Well, Charles, fancy meeting you here.”

It was a fine face smiling back at her, and she remembered it. She’d met Charles Monroe nearly a year before while investigating another murder — the case that had brought her and Roarke together. Charles was a licensed companion, slick and charming. And what, she wondered, was a well-heeled LC doing in dating service?

“Trolling, Charlie? Looks like you and I are going to have to have another talk. Computer go to third match.”

Match three of five, Jeremy Vandoren, divorced —

“Lieutenant.”