Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(43)

Though she knew it was a time waster, it was a routine one, so Eve took the data on Newman's case files. She took the names, the addresses. And with Peabody, went next to Newman's apartment.

The living/kitchen area was larger than Minnie Cable's, but lacked the color and life of clutter. It was clean to the point of sterile with its blank, white walls, engaged privacy screens, its straight-lined sofa and single chair.

There was a data unit on a workstation in the bedroom--bed tidily made--and two boxes of discs, clearly labeled.

“Kinda sad, isn't it?” Peabody glanced around. “Thinking about the different places we've been in today. Say, Mrs. Grentz's insane treasure house, the wild space where Hildy lives below. Even Minnie Cable's pitiful little rooms. People lived there, you could see. Stuff happened there. This is like a vid set. Single professional female with no life.”

“Why didn't they take her here, Peabody? Why risk a street grab when they can slide into a secured family dwelling and kill five people in less time than it takes to get pizza delivered?”

“Um. They'd be in a hurry. They'd want to get her fast, see what she knows.”

“Part of it. Yeah, part of it. Maybe this place looks dead, feels dead, but she was smart enough, careful enough to rent in a building with good security. Still, no real problem for our boys. But they didn't wait until she got home, didn't take her here. They want her awhile. That's what I'd want. Want to make sure they get it all out of her, and that might take some time. Take privacy. And there's more.”

She turned a circle, thinking. “Because they can. They know how to move fast, to do a job like this fast, so any potential witnesses see mostly a blur. Couple of guys in black, big black van. Pow, pow. Might not have figured that anybody'd do more than scratch and spit over it in that neighborhood, too. Nobody reports, it takes more time for anybody to realize Newman's among the missing. Longer yet to make any connection to the Swisher murders.”

Eve looked at the blank walls, the lonely, neatly made bed. “They've got her somewhere, right now. When they're done with her, she'll be as dead as this room.”

Eve pulled out her communicator. When Baxter came on, she snapped: “Private communication. Get to a secure location or go to text only.”

“Just me and Trueheart here, Dallas. Kid's downstairs. We've got her on monitor.”

“The social worker on her case has been grabbed. Unsubs match description of our suspects. I don't want the wit out of your sight.”

“She isn't and won't be. Do you expect they'll come after her?”

“If they can find out where she is, they'll try. I want her inside, at all times. Stay on this until the next time you hear from me.”

She clicked off, called Roarke. “They've got the social worker,” she said when he went to private. “She doesn't know the location, and it's a big leap. But I've alerted Baxter.”

“Understood. I'll pass this on to Summerset,” he added in a tone that told her he was in a meeting. “I can be there myself in thirty minutes.”

“I don't think they can move faster--and Newman just knew I took her, not that I took her home, but watch your back. They put the kid with me, they put you with me. Another grab isn't out of the question.”

“I'll offer you the same advice, and say that in both cases it's unnecessary.”

This time it was Roarke who ended transmission.

“Scoop up her discs, address books, memo books. Contact EDD for a pickup on her equipment. Let's do this by the book.”

“How long do you think she's got?”

Eve looked around the stark, soulless room. “Not long enough.”

When Meredith surfaced, she thought there was an ice pick dead center of her forehead, radiating sharp shards of pain. The headache was so blinding, she assumed at first that was the reason she couldn't see.

Her stomach rolled a bit, as if she'd eaten something past its expiration date, but when she tried to press her hand to it, her arm wouldn't move.

From somewhere, far off, she heard voices. A watery echo of voices.

Then she remembered. She'd been walking on Avenue B, on her way to a home check, and something . . . someone . . .

The fear came fast, spearing through the pain. When she tried to scream, the only sound she could make was a wild, whimpering moan.

She was in the dark, unable to move her arms, her legs, her head. Unable to see or speak, and when something brushed her cheek, her heart punched against her ribs like a fist.

“Subject's conscious. Meredith Newman, you are in a secured location. You will be asked questions. If you answer these questions, you will not be harmed. I'm going to remove the tape from your mouth at this time. Once I do, tell me if you understand.”

Having the tape ripped off in the solid dark brought on a scream that was more from utter terror than pain. She was slapped, open-palm, on one cheek, followed by a quick answering backhand on the other.

“I said tell me if you understand.”

“No. I don't. I don't understand. What's the matter? Who are you? What--” She screamed again, her body straining against the restraints as pain exploded. Like a thousand hot needles jabbed into her bones.

“It will hurt every time you refuse to answer, any time you lie, any time you don't do as you're told.” The voice was quiet, flat. “Do you understand?”