Salvation in Death (In Death #27)(74)

“Give us a minute.” He nudged her back. “That was worlds better, and entirely more challenging, than any previous experience in vehicle sex.”

Look at him, she thought, his hair all messed up from her hands, buttons popped off his shirt, and his eyes all sleepy and smug. “Did you really steal rides so you could have sex in them?”

“There were all manner of reasons to steal rides. For fun, for business, and for somewhere semiprivate to bag the girl.” He leaned up to give her a quick, friendly kiss. “If you like, I’ll steal something so you can have that experience as well.”

“Pass on that.” She glanced down at herself. “You ripped my underwear.”

“I did.” He grinned. “It was expedient. Here now, let’s see if we can pry ourselves out of this.” He slid her up until she could scoot over toward her seat, and bring her leg over him. Once they’d buttoned, fastened, and hooked, he coasted the few feet to the house, parked.

“You know, Summerset knew when we drove through the gate. And even with the narrowness of his mind, he knows what we just did out here.”

“Yes, I believe Summerset’s fully aware we have sex.”

Eve rolled her eyes as she got out. “Now he knows how long and what kind of sex.”

Shaking his head, Roarke hike walked with her to the door. “You’re the most fascinating prude.”

She only muttered to herself as they went inside. And if being hugely relieved Summerset wasn’t hovering in the foyer made her a prude, so be it.

Still, she made a beeline upstairs, and for the bedroom. “I’m going to go ahead and run that search, one looking for media-worthy crime or events here at the time Lino left New York.”

“Do you want help?”

“I can run a search.”

“Good. I want a shower, and an hour or two for some work of my own.”

She narrowed her eyes. She wanted a shower, too—but the man was sneaky. “Hands off in the jets,” she ordered.

He held his up, then started to undress. He was down to trousers when he frowned and crossed to her.

“Hands off out here, too,” she began.

“Quiet. You weren’t kidding about the bite on your shoulder.” She tipped her chin down, turned her head. Grimaced at the marks and bruising. “Bitch had a jaw like a rottweiler.”

“It needs to be cleaned and treated, and a cold patch would help.”

“It’s fine, Nurse Nancy,” she began, then yelped when he poked his finger on the mark.

“It will be, unless you insist on acting like a baby. Shower, disinfectant, medication, cold patch.”

She might have rolled her eyes again, but she didn’t trust him not to make his point a second time. And now the damn shoulder ached.

She let him deal with it, even to the point of adding a chaste kiss. And was forced to admit, at least to herself, that it felt better for the care.

In cotton pants and a T-shirt, she sat at her desk, coffee at her elbow, and ordered the search. While the computer worked, she leaned back to juggle the various players in her mind.

Steve Chávez. He and Lino left New York together—according to Teresa—and that was corroborated by Inez. Chávez does time here and there; Lino bobs and weaves. No convictions on record. But comparing McNab’s search with Chávez’s sheet, she noted that there were a number of times both men had been in the same area.

Old friends, hanging out?

And to the best of her knowledge, they dropped off the grid at about the same time in September of ’53. No way she’d buy coincidence.

Had Chávez come back to New York with Lino? Had he, too, assumed a new identity? Could he be somewhere else, waiting for whatever Lino had waited for? Had he eliminated Lino—and if so, why? Or was he—as she believed Flores was—dead and buried?

Penny Soto. No love lost between her and her former gang partner, Inez. She’d seen that on his face. She’d warrant an interview. She’d had more trouble with the law than Inez, but had no family to protect. And a little digging would probably turn up something Eve could use as a lever to pry information out of her.

She’d go see Soto before she headed downtown to meet Teresa at the morgue.

And maybe she’d missed a step with Teresa. She believed the woman had told her all she was capable of telling her at the time. But another round there might jiggle something else loose.

When her computer announced its task complete, Eve scanned the media reports for the weeks surrounding the time of Lino’s departure.

Murders, rapes, burglaries, robberies, assaults, one kidnapping, assorted muggings, illegals busts, suspicious deaths, and two explosions.

None of the names listed in the reports crossed her list, but she’d run them as a matter of course. Still, it was the explosions that caught her interest. They’d occurred exactly a week apart, each in rival gang territory and both had cost lives. The first, on Soldado turf, at a school auditorium during a dance, had killed one, injured twenty-three minors, two adults—names listed—and caused several thousand in damages.

The second, on Skull turf, at a sandwich joint known as a hangout, a homemade boomer—on timer as the first, but more powerful—had killed four minors, one adult, and injured six.

The police suspected retaliation for that explosion, blah blah, Eve read. Known members of Soldados were being sought for questioning.