Taken in Death (In Death #37.5)(24)

“Then that’s what we’ll do.”

CHAPTER NINE

Streetlamps pooled light on sidewalks, and a single cab rumbled down the street. The rest stayed quiet, with that almost eerie stillness playing along Eve’s skin like a tripped nerve.

“Midnight may be the witching hour,” Roarke said as they got out of the car in front of the MacDermit house, “but I think it’s the hour between three and four—that slice that’s neither day nor night—that’s the darkest and deepest.”

“All I know is she’s had those kids more than twenty-four hours. They’re trapped in the darkest and deepest.”

She stepped inside, into the lights, into the hub of cops at work. Peabody slumped over her computer, and Callender broke from an enormous yawn and stretch to blink.

“Is it change of shift already?”

“We’re early.”

Baxter stepped out of the kitchen area with a large pot of coffee. “What?” he said. “No donuts?”

“That and more on the way,” Roarke told him, then merely lifted his eyebrows at Eve’s puzzled frown. “I took care of it.”

“You’re the man.” Baxter, in wrinkled shirtsleeves, his usually meticulously groomed hair mussed, his eyes shadowed, pulled out a smile.

“Anything break loose?” Eve demanded.

At his station, McNab shook his head. “All quiet on our front. Nothing from the kids or EW. Evil witch,” he said before Eve could ask. “Callender and I’ve been playing around with a scan program that picks up—kind of hit and miss there—the standard signal from the toy then translates it to our code for a satellite bounce. We’ve been working on filtering out similar signals from the scan. A lot of kid-comms out there.”

“That’s a good thought,” Roarke commented.

“Hit and miss,” McNab repeated. “And the toy has to be on, and the translation has to mesh. We picked up a handful, but did a search run on the locations. Not our kids—established homes with offspring types.”

“We might correlate the sister’s unit,” Roarke began, moving to e-territory linguistically and geographically. “They were purchased at the same time, same place, manufactured at the same time, place, same lot. We could try a splice and lock, then push through a de-babble.”

“Tricky,” McNab decided, but his tired eyes glinted. “And frosty.”

Eve left him to it, turned to Peabody. “Report?”

“We’ve been refining the map, and following it with search and scans on buildings in each separate sector. I’m starting to feel she could be in here, this run between Sixty-sixth and Sixty-eighth, Lex or Third.”

“Why?”

“Just, I don’t know, I keep coming back there, but the probability runs aren’t any better there than the rest of the area.” Peabody rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes. “I just keep coming back to it.”

“We’ve been able to narrow it a little, Lieutenant,” Trueheart put in. “Eliminate some of the buildings—established families, long-term owners or tenants. Unless . . . the data could’ve been compromised. She could’ve covered herself on it.”

“It feels like spinning wheels,” Peabody admitted. “Except I keep coming back to that more narrow area.”

“Okay, I’ll work it. Baxter, go catch some sleep. Peabody, Trueheart, you’re relieved as soon as Jenkinson and Reineke get in. One of you can go,” she told Callender and McNab.

“I’ve got it,” McNab said.

“I’ve got it,” Callender disagreed.

They eyed each other. “Winner stays,” McNab suggested, held out his fist.

“Fair enough.”

After three shakes of fists, McNab held out two fingers, Callender the flat of her hand. “Damn it,” she muttered. “I figured you for rock. I’ve never done a de-babble on a splice and lock.”

“Go,” Eve ordered. “Grab some food and a rack. Be back by . . .” She checked the time. “Make it seven thirty. Let me see what we’ve got here. Get some coffee,” she told Peabody. “Take a walk.”

Grabbing coffee herself, Eve sat, read over Peabody’s notes, studied the probabilities. Reran them with some slight variations.”

Then she sat back, drinking coffee, studying the map on screen, adjusting highlighted areas in her head.

She read over Borgstrom’s data again, and Mira’s profile and assessments. Rose to study the board, and the map.

When the other men came in, followed by three delivery guys and a boatload of food, more coffee, she stayed hunched over her computer, trying to finesse those angles and probabilities.

“Trueheart,” she said without looking up, “call Peabody in. Grab some fuel, then the two of you go get some sleep. Report back, eight thirty.”

“I can stay, Lieutenant. I’ve got my second wind. Maybe it’s my third.”

She flicked a glance at him. Lack of sleep had leached color from his face, highlighted smudges of fatigue under his eyes. He probably could and would stick it out, but a few hours down would keep him sharper.

“We’ve got it for now. Take the rack, be back by eight thirty.”

“Got some data from IRCCA.” Feeney shoveled eggs in his mouth. “Checked for the results on the way in. Couple may be our girl, but the closest I got is a dead guy in Paris, eight months ago. Sliced and diced—and missing his liver and heart—some evidence it was cooked up, sautéed like with wine and shit, right on site.” He crunched into bacon. “Cops looked for a woman—person of interest—” He paused to inhale more eggs. “Wit statements indicate he maybe had a lady on the side. Wife swears he did, but they never ID’d her.”