Visions in Death (In Death #19)(64)

She didn't have to wait. Nadine was already there, and the fact that she was idly buffing her fingernails told Eve she wanted to rub it in a little.

"I know this is your slot," Nadine began. "But since when is this your ride?"

Eve skimmed a hand over the fender of the shiny blue vehicle. Soon, when she was absolutely sure of privacy, she might just kiss it.

"Since my devious partner used the right bribe on the right person."

"Go, Peabody."

"It was nothing. A couple vids of Dallas naked in the shower, and we're cruising."

"Very funny. What do you want, Nadine? I'm on a tight schedule."

"Breen Merriweather." There was no smirk now.

"You have information?"

"I don't know that I do. I've very carefully asked some questions," she added before Eve could speak. "I know how to ask questions, and I comprehend all manner of things, including we will not discuss or disclose. Asking questions with the idea that Breen was one of this bastard's targets puts a different complexion on the answers. She made an offhand comment, a few nights before she disappeared, to some of the tech crew."

"What comment?"

"Coffee-break talk, some of the girl techs. One of them man-hunting. No good men left in the city. No big strong heroes, blah, blah. And Breen said she should come ride home with her some night. There was this big, silent type starting to ride her train. She made some joke about that old horse—you know, the size of a man's thumbs indicating the size of his equipment. Said this guy must be hung like a bull because his hands were the size of turkey platters."

"That it?"

"No." She pushed at her hair. "They were joking around, just chilling. So there was a lot of how big is he, Breen, and your expected lewd conversation. She—Breen—she said she'd pass him to one of the other girls, because he wasn't her type. She liked men with hair, and he was probably an ass**le anyway, because he always wore sunshades. Middle of the night, and he's wearing sunshades."

"Okay."

"It had to be him."

"A lot of people ride the subway at night, Nadine. Some of them are men. Some of the men are large. But yeah, it's possible."

"Trains have security cams."

"Yeah, they do." It was hard to look at hope, insistent hope, in the eyes of a friend. "And the discs are recycled every thirty days. She's been gone a lot longer than that."

"But you could—"

"I'll look into it."

"The sunshades, Dallas. He's got a thing for eyes."

"I comprehend things, too. I'm going to follow up on it."

"All right." She backed off though Eve could all but see her quiver to say more, to ask more. "You have to promise to let me know."

"Soon as I can."

Nadine nodded, then shook herself and looked back toward the vehicle. "So, how long you figure before you trash this one?"

"Shut up."

To discourage further conversation, she got in the car. She started it up, reversed around Nadine, and drove out of the garage. And immediately contacted Feeney.

"I've got a tip."

"Me, too. Let a smile be your umbrella and you're gonna get your dumb ass wet."

"Huh. I'll remember that. Merriweather, Breen, missing and presumed. She commented to a coworker a couple days before she poofed about a big guy who started riding her train. Made a lot of comments regarding his size. Also described him as bald and wearing sunshades."

"Discs are recycled by now, if not destroyed." He pulled his lip. "We can go to the Transit Authority, cull through until we find discs, if they still exist, for that time period. We can pick through the images, try to find echoes of previous images. Lot of luck involved there, but we might find him."

She noticed—tried not to, but couldn't avoid it—that today's shirt was the color of lime juice. "I can ask Whitney for the extra manpower and OT you need."

"I can do my own begging, thanks. I'll send a couple of boys down to get started. Got the train route in the file."

"Keep me in the loop."

" McNab'seyes are going to bleed," Peabody commented when Eve ended transmission. "That's what he gets for being an e-man."

"We get a visual of this guy, we nail that visual, we nail the box."

It was going to take time, Eve thought. Not just hours, but days. And more than luck, it was going to require a small miracle.

———«»——————«»——————«»———

O'Hara's was as advertised: a small, reasonably clean Irish-style pub. More authentic in that area, Eve noted, than some billed as such in the city that attempted to prove it by slapping up shamrocks everywhere and requiring the staff to speak with fake Irish accents.

This one was dimly lit, with a good, solid bar, deep booths, and low tables scattered around with short stools bracketing them rather than chairs.

The man working the stick was wide as a draft horse, and pulled pints of Harp, Guinness, Smithwick with an easy skill that told her he'd likely been doing so since he could stand.