Midnight in Death (In Death #7.5)(17)

“She’s no natural redhead,” Eve said for the hell of it and heard him laugh as she shut the door between them.

“Sir.” Peabody got to her feet. “I think I have a line on the vehicle. Three possibles, high-end privates sold to single men in their early to mid-twenties on December twentieth and twenty-first. Two dealerships on the East Side and one in Brooklyn.”

“Print hard copies of Palmer’s photo.”

“Already done.”

“Feeney?”

“Whittling it down.”

“Keep whittling. Roarke should have some data on the murder weapon inside a half hour. Send what he has to me in the field, will you? Peabody, you’re with me.”

The first dealership was a wash, and as she pulled up at the second, Eve sincerely hoped she didn’t have to head to Brooklyn. The shiny new vehicles on the showroom floor had Peabody’s eyes gleaming avariciously. Only Eve’s quick elbow jab kept her from stroking the hood of a Booster-67, the sport-utility vehicle of the year.

“Maintain some dignity,” Eve muttered. She flagged a salesman, who looked none too happy when she flipped out her badge. “I need to talk to the rep who sold a rig like this”—she gestured toward the Booster—“last week. Young guy bought it.”

“Lana sold one of the 6Zs a few days before Christmas.” Now he looked even unhappier. “She often rounds up the younger men.” He pointed to a woman at a desk on the far side of the showroom.

“Thanks.” Eve walked over, noting that Lana had an explosion of glossy black curls cascading down her back, a headset over it, and was fast-talking a potential customer on the line while she manually operated a keyboard with fingernails painted a vivid red.

“I can put you in it for eight a month. Eight a month and you’re behind the wheel of the sexiest, most powerful land and air unit currently produced. I’m slicing my commission to the bone because I want to see you drive off in what makes you happy.”

“Make him happy later, Lana.” Eve held her badge in front of Lana’s face.

Lana put a hand over the mouthpiece, studied the ID, cursed softly. Then her voice went back to melt. “Jerry, you take one more look at the video, try out the holo run. If you’re not smiling by the end of it, the 7000’s not the one for you. You call me back and let me know. Remember, I want you happy. Hear?”

She disconnected, glared at Eve. “I paid those damn parking violations. Every one.”

“Glad to hear it. Our city needs your support. I need information on a sale you made last week. Booster. You were contacted earlier today and confirmed.”

“Yeah, right. Nice guy, pretty face.” She smiled. “He knew what he wanted right off.”

“Is this the guy?” Eve signaled to Peabody, who took out the photo.

“Yeah. Cute.”

“Yeah, he’s real cute. I need the data. Name, address, the works.”

“Sure, no problem.” She turned to her machine, asked for the readout. Then, looking back up at Eve, she narrowed her eyes. “You look familiar. Have I sold you a car?”

Eve thought of her departmental issue, its sad pea-green finish and blocky style. “No.”

“You really look—Oh!” Lana lit up like a Christmas tree. “Sure, sure, you’re Roarke’s wife. Roarke’s cop wife. I’ve seen you on screen. Word is he’s got an extensive collection of vehicles. Where does he deal?”

“Wherever he wants,” Eve said shortly, and Lana let out a g*y laugh.

“Oh, I’m sure he does. I’d absolutely love to show him our brand-new Barbarian. It won’t be on the market for another three months, but I can arrange a private showing. If you’d just give him my card, Mrs. Roarke, I’ll be—”

“You see this?” Eve took out her badge again, all but pushed it into Lana’s pert nose. “It says ‘Dallas.’ Lieutenant Dallas. I’m not here to liaison your next commission. This is an official investigation. Give me the damn data.”

“Certainly. Of course.” If her feathers were ruffled, Lana hid it well. “Um, the name is Peter Nolan, 123 East Sixty-eighth, apartment 4-B.”

“How’d he pay?”

“That I remember. Straight E-transfer. The whole shot. Didn’t want to finance. The transfer was ordered, received, and confirmed, and he drove off a happy man.”

“I need all the vehicle information, including temp license and registration number. Full description.”

“All right. Gee, what’d he do? Kill somebody?”

“Yeah, he did.”

“Wow.” Lana busily copied the data disc. “You just can’t trust a pretty face,” she said and slipped her business card into the disc pack.

Chapter Seven

Peter Nolan didn’t live at the Sixty-eighth Street address. The Kowaskis, an elderly couple, and their creaky schnauzer had lived there for fifteen years.

A check of the bank showed that the Nolan account had been opened, in person, on December 20 of that year and closed on December 22.

Just long enough to do the deal, Eve thought. But where had he gotten the money?

Taking Roarke’s advice, she rounded out a very long day by starting searches on accounts under the name of Palmer. It would, she thought, rubbing her eyes, take a big slice of time.