Thankless in Death (In Death #37)(82)

Following the direction of his gaze, she looked down at herself. She wore one tattered sleeve of what had been her shirt, most of her support tank, and her weapon harness—with her pants bunched around the ankles of her boots—and her clutch piece.

“That was probably a nice shirt,” she thought aloud.

“It’s good you have more. As do I.”

He tugged off the rags of his own.

“We need to get the torn stuff into a recycler. I’m not having Summerset getting a load of it.”

“I keep reminding you he’s aware we have sex.”

“There’s sex, then there’s sex.”

He considered the torn clothes as she hiked up her pants again. “There is, yes. We’ll gather them up.” He offered a hand, pulled her to her feet. “Then what do you say we change, eat, then get to work.”

“I say it’s a plan.”

“And what do you say to spaghetti and meatballs?”

“I say it’s a genius plan.” She let herself lean on him a moment. “I’ve been pissed under it all, all day. It’s nothing to do with anything but the case, and it doesn’t do any good to get pissed about a case. I guess I needed to blow off some steam.”

“Happy to assist.”

She poked his bare chest. “You got your steam off, too, pal.”

“We both have something to be thankful for.”

Together, they picked up torn shirts.

The food helped, as did the routine of updating her board, reading the reports from her people in the field, touching base with Feeney.

She couldn’t say what Roarke did in the lab, but knew without question if anyone could find something to help on the wiped machine, he could. He would.

She ran probabilities, but didn’t feel confident in the results. Indeed, when she factored out the Boyds’ two college-age children, the percentage increased for targeting. And how could Reinhold know the kids were home for Thanksgiving?

Would he even think of family and holidays?

He’d want Boyd, she thought, drinking yet more coffee as she worked. To prove he could hit one out of the park, that would be his thinking.

But Boyd was no slightly out-of-shape salesman, ambushed by his own son—a son who lived in the same apartment. Boyd was fit, tough, had good security. Reinhold would need to plan carefully there. More, Eve thought, he’d need to build up his courage.

More likely to try for women first, for older targets, less secure targets.

Marlene Wizlet and the Schumakers topped her list, along with his friend Asshole Joe, followed by Garber, his former Global Studies teacher.

If he stuck to pattern, it would be one of them. If, she thought, as she highlighted each.

Maybe he’d take a little vacation on his latest victim’s money.

No, she decided as she rose to pace and circle. He’d need that euphoria again, that power again, that payback again. But he was hurt, so that might buy a little time.

“Where are you, you bastard?”

Once again, she put the map on screen, highlighted each crime scene, each sighting. With the aid of the computer, she calculated more routes, more probabilities until her head throbbed.

When Roarke came in, she stood studying results, rocking back and forth on her heels more from frustration than fatigue.

“Too many damn possibles. Hotels, apartments, condos, duplexes, single-family residences. Even when you calculate high-end and focus on sectors near his old neighborhood, there’s too many. And hell, he could decide to live uptown. Freaking New Jersey. Brooklyn, Queens. No, no.” Annoyed with herself, she rubbed at the tightness in the back of her neck. “It’s going to be Manhattan, and near what he knows. He won’t want to feel superior from a distance. But …”

“You’re working in circles, Lieutenant.”

“I know it. It’s pissing me off.”

“You need sleep. Clear your mind,” he continued, and cupped her face in his hand. “Come at it fresh in the morning.”

“I hate this guy, and that’s stupid. I don’t even know why especially, as I’ve dealt with worse. But he’s stuck in my throat.”

“When you have him in Interview, you’ll be stuck in his.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Let’s go to bed.”

Might as well, she thought, as working in circles wasn’t going to find her mark.

“Did you get anything?” she asked as they walked to the bedroom.

“It’s slow, and bloody frustrating. I’ve got some bytes, and enough to see she’d interfaced her units. When we pull out more, we may be able to follow the money trail more precisely. Feeney’s banging his head against that wall. We’ve connected on it a few times tonight. He’ll bang it again tomorrow. And before you ask, yes, McNab’s been at work as I have, and they pulled in Callendar as well. We’ll get there, but it’s going to continue to be slow and frustrating for all of us.”

In the bedroom, she stripped down. “If we find the money trail, the accounts—and they’re out of our reach, legally—you could hack them with the unregistered.”

He glanced over as she dragged on a nightshirt. Her skin had that faint, translucent glow it developed when she’d exhausted herself. “I could, yes, and enjoy it as well.”