Taken in Death (In Death #37.5)(25)

“Who was he?”

“Big-deal pastry chef. Did cakes and stuff for the rich set, gave private lessons if you had the money to buy the time. Took him out in the kitchen of his fancy shop on the Chomps de Leezay,” he added, mangling the French over a mouthful of hash browns. “Pulled out half a mill, in cash, the day he bought it.”

“The money, the internal organs. Was he marked?”

“Yeah, that’s how we caught it. Pentagram-type symbol, just over his heart—postmortem.”

“That’s her work,” Eve said, firmly.

“Don’t get how people eat liver, no matter where it comes from. One wit claims she saw him with a brunette, so the hair’s off. But the rest of the description jibes. Five-eight, mid to late thirties, white. I’ll talk to France, see if I can pull out any more.”

“Good. If we factor it in, it narrows her time here. That may help on the location.” She took the slice of bacon Feeney offered her, chewed thoughtfully.

“Reineke, narrow the location search to the last eight months—rent or purchase. I’m going to take a unit, walk around.”

“I’m with you,” Roarke told her.

“You’re probably more useful in here.”

“McNab has this, and Feeney’s here. Two units, more coverage.” He tossed Eve her coat, grabbed his own.

Eve pulled it on, then frowned at the bread pocket he held out.

“What’s that?”

“Breakfast.” He handed her a unit as well, picked up another, and a second bread pocket. “Let’s have a walk, Lieutenant.”

“Feeney, keep it covered,” she said, and biting into the sandwich—warm eggs, crisp bacon, a bit of peppery cheese—headed out the door.

“We’re a couple hours from sunrise,” Eve began. “I looked it up. I don’t see her starting on those kids until morning. Just trying to factor in Mira’s profile, the little else we know, she’s more likely to string this out a few more hours, make her sister sweat through the morning. Or maybe I’m just hoping she will.”

Eve looked down at the silent unit in her hand. “We don’t even know, not for certain, she put them under last night. We’re guessing that, going with the odds. She’s f**king crazy, Roarke. And kids are scary anyway. She could’ve killed them both just to shut them up.”

“You don’t think that, and neither do I. To shut them up she locks them in, drugs them, or just leaves them alone. Alive they’re more exciting. And she wants her sister to choose one of them. One to live, one to die.”

“Whichever one Tosha picks to live? She’ll kill that one first. She’ll figure that’s the one more powerful, more important, and take that one out.”

“The mother won’t pick. They’ll stall.” He took her free hand to warm it in his. “The agents have the experience here, and they’ll have a way to stall it. Buy more time.”

“How much battery life do you figure Henry’s got left on this thing?”

That had been a worry niggling in his brain since the evening before. “At this point, I think no more than an hour, likely less. He won’t have many more chances there, especially if he tries to send those photos.”

“Was I wrong there? To have him use the time left to take a couple pictures he may not even be able to send?”

“Not if it helps you find him.”

“We should separate, focus on Peabody’s hunch.” She paused at the corner. Which way, which way? Where were the goddamn bread crumbs?

“Bread crumbs,” she said out loud. Liked baking cookies, prison kitchen, dead pastry chef. “What if we’re looking for cookie crumbs. She’s making them eat cakes and cookies.”

“Pushing childhood fantasy—all the sweets you can eat?”

“The sweeter to eat you, my dear.”

“You’re mixing your folktales, Lieutenant, but that’s a grim thought. Evil witch, gingerbread house, plump them up to eat.”

“Maybe, and maybe it’s cookies. Bakery. Lives in or works in. Dead baker in Paris, and she doesn’t do anything without purpose. He gave private lessons. Maybe she took lessons, did the vamp thing, killed him and ate his liver.”

“With fava beans and a nice Chianti.”

“What?” She blinked for a beat. “What?”

“An old classic line from an exceptional vid. Hold on a minute.” He pulled out his PPC, began to work. “There’s a bakery on Third, between Sixty-sixth and -seventh. Indulge Yourself. And a little pastry shop on Lex and Sixty-fifth—Magic Sweets.”

“Take the first one,” Eve said immediately. “I’ll take the second.”

“You think it’s the second. Magic—pastries instead of a standard bakery. That’s your instinct.”

“We need to cover both, and the whole thing may be wrong.” She pulled out her comm, intending to tell Reineke to pull data on the two buildings, but switched it to her signaling ’link. Grabbed Roarke’s arm.

“It’s the photos, Henry’s sending the photos.”

“Hello?” The voice piped onto her unit, and Roarke’s. “Is anybody there? I don’t . . . good. Gala won’t . . . up. I don’t feel good.”