Kindred in Death (In Death #29)(62)

“If I hit anything in the meantime, you’ll be the first.”

“Right, do a secondary, adding in an Anders airboard. Black with silver racing stripes. Street Sport. He may have purchased that along with the shoes.”

“Got it.”

Eve dragged out her ’link as she headed down to the garage.

“Lieutenant,” Roarke said.

“I’ve got some field work, then I’m going to work from home. I’m heading out now. Just, ah, fyi.”

His eyebrow raised. “Then I suppose I’ll have to get myself home.”

“Sorry. When you do . . . we’ll talk about that then.”

“If you say so. I’ll be there . . . eventually. Eat something, and don’t wait for me,” he ordered and broke transmission.

She frowned at the blank screen. She knew annoyed when she heard it. He shouldn’t have poked into the cop work if he was going to get annoyed she couldn’t hang around to give him a damn ride home.

She stewed about it all the way to the lab, and was primed to chew out Dickhead’s heart if he gave her any grief.

“What is it?” he barked at her. “It’s frigging end of shift for me since you got me in here . . .” He trailed off, paling a little as he scooted to a safe distance on his rolly stool. “Jesus, Dallas, did you just growl?”

“I’ll do more than growl. I’ll rip out your liver with my bare hands and eat it.” She slapped the two sealed playbills down. “One of these is going to have his prints. I want his goddamn prints and f**k your end of shift.”

“Hey, hey, hey. You used to at least offer me a decent bribe. Not that I’d take one, under the circumstances,” he added hurriedly. “Just saying.”

Shoulders hunched, he drew one of the playbills out with tongs, set it on a sterile pad. He ran a scanner over the front, keyed in something on his comp. Blew out a long-suffering breath.

“Got smears, and lots of them, some partials, a couple of decents—and that’s just the cover of one. Do you know how many people handle this kind of thing? You got the people who put them together, pack ’em, ship ’em, unpack ’em, divvy them up, pass them out.”

“I want every print, and smudge, on both of them—inside and out—analyzed and ID’d.”

“It’s not a f**king snap. We’ll do it, we’ll get it done, but it’s not a f**king snap with this many hands on them.”

“Just get me the prints. I’ll do the eliminating.”

“Damn right you will.” He pointed at her, stood—or sat—his ground. “We got you what you needed this morning. I worked this myself, and put two of my best on it. We did our job, and we’ll do this one, too. So don’t jump down my throat.”

Because she respected his annoyance and pride a lot more than his whining and bullshit, she nodded. “The bastard who killed Deena MacMasters handled one of these. Had to. I don’t have a face, I don’t have a name. I’ve got lines and avenues and angles, but I don’t have a single viable suspect. We’re going to hit the end of the first forty-eight, and I’ve got no suspect.”

“We’ll get you what you need.”

She stepped back, hands in her pockets. “Two boxed seats, third base side, Yankees, first home game in July.”

He bared his teeth in a smile. “That’s more like it.”

What the hell, she thought as she trudged back to her car. He’d have earned it.

She started to head back uptown, toward home, then realized she wasn’t all that far, not really, from Louise’s new place in the West Village. A quick detour, and she could do her duty.

Probably Louise wasn’t even home. Probably. And if Charles was, she could just make noises about stopping in on the way home to see if there was anything she could do for Saturday.

She’d be off the hook, and it wouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.

Excellent plan. She called up the address, which she couldn’t remember, on her in-dash, and began weaving and dodging her way toward the more trendy sector.

Shady trees, old brownstone and brick, tidy little front courtyards gave this slice of the West Village a neighborhood appeal. Flowers bloomed, little dogs pranced on the ends of leashes held by people who could afford to stroll on a weekday afternoon. Vehicles, of the smart and shiny variety, lined the curbs. She snagged a spot two blocks from her destination and used the walking time to run probabilities.

Mira’s profile said he worked, and since he had better-than-average e-skills, maybe he worked in that field. The computer gave the idea some merit with a seventy-two-point-one probability.

Going with that, she thought, if he’d attended Columbia, he’d have taken e-courses. More, certainly, than were required for any degree. Possibly, he majored in some e-field.

Tap the source there, she thought, and refined her search request to Peach Lapkoff to include students from Southern states who’d majored in or had a strong focus in e-degrees.

Immersed, she might have walked by if Louise hadn’t hailed her.

“Dallas! You have to be the last person I expected to see walking by.”

Distracted, Eve stopped, glanced over. And there was the bride-to-be, with her sunny hair under a pink ball cap, wearing a dirt-smeared T-shirt and a pair of baggy cotton pants. The doctor held some sort of little shovel in her hand while flowers burst into bloom at her feet.