Taken in Death (In Death #37.5)(16)

When she rejoined the team she passed off to Reineke. The home, turned crime scene, turned temporary HQ, smelled of coffee and pizza and the carnival lacing of sugar from the donuts Jenkinson had brought in.

It smelled like cop, she thought.

“Peabody, let’s try what worked on the Reinhold case. We’ll generate a map, using the target area. Eliminate high-rises to start. Let’s look for single homes, or smaller buildings with basements.”

“I’ll get it going.” Peabody took a slug of coffee. Sometime while Eve had been walking she’d pulled her dark hair back in a stubby tail. “With Reinhold we knew he’d had only a couple days to secure a location. She’s had a year or better.”

“And Reinhold was days ahead of us,” Eve reminded her partner. “She’s only had hours. The kid said there were two beds in the room, no windows. Not that the windows were shut or boarded or shielded. No windows. And goddamn it, I know he’s just a kid and the intel could be wrong, but we’re going with it.”

“Okay. I got it.”

Roarke walked over, held out a slice of pizza. “Eat.”

“In a minute.”

“You’ve been at this all day. Eat. Take a break.”

“Those kids aren’t getting a break.” But she took the slice. “She knew they were away, the parents. She knew the nanny would let her in, thinking she was Tosha. She didn’t have to kill the nanny. Knock her out, restrain her, get the kids, get out. She killed the nanny because it would hurt the sister more, and because she likes killing.”

She bit into the pizza, thinking, thinking. “The symbol—she carved the pentagram into the nanny, like she did with her father, and later with the doctor she killed. It means something.”

Eve circled around. “Tosha—the mother—said the kids still believed in fairy tales. In her way, so does Maj Borgstrom. Her sign, on her kills. Her need to eliminate her sister so she . . . gains power? I think it’s that as much as the obsession with being the only one.

“She’d had enough time to observe the household, the dynamics of it. I say she knew her sister and the nanny had a strong relationship. Maybe . . . sisterly? I don’t know. I haven’t had time to give the dead nanny any attention. It’s not right. It’s disrespectful.”

“Bollocks.”

“It’s not—”

“It is,” he interrupted. “How long had she tended the children?”

“Over six years. Almost as long as they’ve been alive.”

“And you say she and the mother—and I assume the father as well—had a strong and personal relationship.”

“Yeah, that’s my take from their reaction to her death. It hit hard.”

“Is it your take the nanny—what was her name?”

“Darcia Jordan. She was twenty-nine. She had parents, grandparents, great-grandparents. Two sisters. A niece and two nephews.”

And she berated herself for not giving the dead her attention? Roarke thought.

“Would you say Darcia loved the children, or was it just a job?”

“She loved them. The wit—her friend—her statement, the next-of-kin’s statement, the parents.’ Yeah, she loved the kids.”

Because he could see the frustration and worry, he skimmed a hand over her hair. “And wouldn’t she want you to focus all your time and energy, your skill, on bringing them home safe?”

“I know that in my head, but—”

Before she could evade, and knowing she’d object, Roarke pressed his lips to hers. “You’re standing for her, Eve. And you’ll bring her justice when you bring the children she loved home again.”

“No kissing on duty.”

“I’m not on duty. I’m a civilian.” He smiled at her. “But I do see how shocked the badges in the room are at such a display.”

Since work went on without a hitch—or a smirk—she didn’t have much ground to stand on. But the principal remained. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing some geek work?”

“I have done, and will do. We’re on shifts at the moment, waiting for the boy to transmit again. We should be able to amplify the transmission, and clean out any noise.”

“Can’t we home in on it, like we could on a standard ’link?”

“But it isn’t a standard ’link, is it?” Roarke dealt with some frustration of his own. “He’s just the age group, Henry is, it’s targeted for. Too young for a ’link, too old to settle for a unit that just makes noise, just sets off a recording. He can talk, real time, to his mates down the block, or play games—play games with those friends as well, in real time, or run up his own scores, wait for them to have a go.”

“I know Feeney took one of them apart, but maybe you should. It’s your thing.”

“I didn’t design the bloody toy. I manufacture it. He’s more than capable of sussing out the workings, and I’ve put him together with the design team. All I can do is lend a hand, and a bit more high-powered equipment.”

Frustrated, she thought. He was every bit as frustrated as she. They were combing the area, scouting it foot by foot. Generating maps, poring over data and time lines.

But their biggest lead was a seven-year-old with a toy.