Survivor In Death (In Death #20)(88)

“As far as I'm concerned, your remarks are always incorrect. So fine. Now make tracks. I'm working.”

He would damn well finish swallowing this hideous crow. “You brought the child here for safe-keeping, and you've seen that she's been safely kept. I'm aware that you're working diligently to identify and capture the people who killed her family. It's visibly apparent that you're giving this considerable time and effort as you have circles under your eyes and your disposition is even more disagreeable than usual due to lack of proper rest and nutrition.”

“Bite me.”

“And your clever repartee suffers as a result.”

“How's this for clever repartee?” She jabbed her middle finger into the air.

“Typical.” He nearly turned and left. Very nearly. But he couldn't forget that Nixie had told him Eve stood with her when she'd said good-bye to her mother.

“She had a very hard day, Lieutenant. Grieving. And when I coaxed her to take a nap, she had another nightmare. She asked for you, and you wouldn't. . . couldn't,” he corrected, “be here. I was overwrought when you arrived, and I was incorrect.”

“Okay. Forget it.”

When he turned to leave, she took a deep breath. She didn't mind giving as good as she got, when it came to cheap shots. It was harder to give as good when it was conciliatory. But if she didn't, it would itch at her and distract her from the work.

“Hey.” He stopped, turned. “I brought her here because I figured it was the safest place for her. And because I figured I had someone on site who'd know how to take care of a nine-year-old girl. Knowing she's comfortable with you gives me the space I need to do what I have to do.”

“Understood. I'll leave you to do it.”

It's about time somebody did, Eve thought as he left. Then she sat down, propped her feet on her desk, sipped her coffee. And studied her murder board while the computer ran the next search.

17

EVE MADE NOTES FROM SEARCH RESULTS, RAN probabilities, continued her notes. She was tired of riding a desk on this one. She wanted action. Needed to move.

Instead, she rolled her shoulders, went back to her notes.

Kirkendall v. Kirkendall to Moss.

To Duberry. To, most likely, Brenegan.

To Swisher, Swisher, Swisher, Dyson, and Snood.

To Newman.

To Knight and Preston.

Kirkendall to Isenberry.

Isenberry to Tully and Tully to Rangle.

No harm to Tully or Rangle, with countless opportunities.

Target specific.

And all circling back to Kirkendall v. Kirdendall.

“What time is it in Nebraska?”

“Ah.” Peabody blinked her tired eyes, rubbed them. “Let's see, it's five-twenty here, so I think it's an hour earlier there? Do they do daylight savings? I think. An hour. Probably.”

“Why does it have to be an hour earlier there, or an hour later here? Why can't everybody just run on the same time and end the madness?”

“It has to do with the earth turning on its axis as it orbits the sun and . . .” She trailed off, catching Eve's narrowed glare. “You're right. Everybody should run on the same time. Dallas time. I'd vote for it. Are we going to Nebraska?”

“I'm going to do everything in my power to avoid it.” Going out in the field didn't mean she wanted to go out in actual fields. With hay or grass or spooky corn. “Let's try the wonder of the 'link first.”

She opened Dian Kirkendall's file, found her sister's data. “Turnbill, Roxanne. Age forty-three. Married to Joshua, mother of Benjamin and Samuel. Professional Mother status. Okay, Roxanne, let's see what you know about your brother-in-law.”

The face that popped on her screen was a child's--a boy, Eve thought, despite the sunny halo of hair. He had a big, wide open face with the dazzle of green eyes. “Hello, hi, this is Ben. Who are you?”

“Is either your mother or your father”--or any rational adult--”at home?”

“My mom's here, but you're supposed to say who it is, then say if you can--if you may,” he corrected, “speak with somebody.”

Now kids were lecturing her on manners. What had happened to her world? “This is Dallas. May I speak with your mother?”

“Okay.” There was a blur and a jumble on-screen, then a piercing shout. “Mom! Dallas is calling you. Can I have a cookie now?”

“One cookie, Ben. And don't shout near the 'link. It's rude.” The mother had the son's curls, but in a deep brunette. Her smile wasn't as open, but polite, and just a little annoyed around the edges. “Can I help you?”

“Mrs. Turnbill?”

“Yes. Look, we've blocked solicitations, so I'm sorry, but if you've--”

“I'm Lieutenant Dallas with the New York City Police and Security Department.”

“Oh.” Even that polite smile faded. “What is it?”

“I'm calling regarding your former brother-in-law, Roger Kirkendall.”

“Is he dead?”

“No, not to my knowledge. I'm trying to locate him for questioning in connection with a case. Do you have any information as to his whereabouts?”

“No. I can't help you. I've very busy so--”