Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(69)

“Congratulations, but maybe we could hold off on the wine and applause until after we’ve taken the killer next door into police custody.”

“Sorry. This is the strangest, scariest night of my life.” Philippe dropped his brow to Jan’s. “And it made me realize I want to spend all the rest of them with you.”

“Sweet. Kudos. Let’s move.”

As Eve strode out, Roarke dropped a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Love changes everything. I proposed to my wife after we limped away from a physical altercation with another serial killer. Good times.”

“Feels surreal, but I guess not so much when you’re a cop.”

“She is. I’m not.”

Eyes widened, Philippe pointed at Eve, then at Roarke, got a nod.

“And trust me, you and your fiancée couldn’t be in better hands.”

Eve walked straight back—rooms without doors, rooms full of building supplies—to the master suite in progress.

“This is directly under him,” she said quietly. “Anything that’s not inane chatter about decor and marriage, keep it down.”

“This room’s soundproofed,” Jan told her.

“All the better.” Eve looked up, imagined Mackie, then studied the communal wall.

It didn’t matter to her it was smooth, clean, and the color of Irish moss. It mattered that the wall led to Reginald Mackie.

“I just finished the second coat—or nearly finished.” Jan sighed. “Does it really have to be this wall?”

“Quickest, safest. The department will have it fully repaired, and in a timely fashion. I’ll make sure of it. Feeney?”

“Got you. He’s maintaining position. I read four people in your location, and the dog, directly under his.”

“We’re going in from here. The two civilians and the dog will return to the main level, rear—get your outdoor gear,” she told them. “And be ready to be removed to safety if necessary.”

“Copy that,” Feeney responded. “Two civilians and, ah, a dog, to be taken out when needed. How about a little distraction on the street—draw his attention while you’re cutting through.”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

“Tell me when you’re ready.”

Eve pulled the laser cutter out of the satchel. “We’re ready.”

“Jenkinson, Reineke, you’re on,” Feeney announced.

“That’s top-of-the-line.” Drawn to the tool, Philippe moved closer. “We invested in a good one, but that’s top-of-the-line.”

“It’s yours,” Eve said on impulse. “When we’re done here.”

“No shit?”

“None whatsoever.” She handed the cutter to Roarke. “Get your gear, go downstairs, back to that lounge area. If we need you out, cops will get you clear. Otherwise, hold tight, keep quiet.”

Eve gave the dog—still clamping the blue bone—a steady stare. “And keep the dog quiet, too, if you can.”

Jan took one more look at the wall. “It’s just paint. And new wiring. And soundproofing.”

Philippe put his arm around her to lead her out. “And every time we look at it, we’ll remember the night we got engaged.”

Eve waited until they were clear, then pulled out her weapon. “Just big enough for us to get through.”

Roarke hunkered down, switched on the tool.

It hummed, but to Eve’s ears Galahad’s sleeping purr pitched louder.

“Curtain’s up,” Feeney said in her ear.

Eve sidestepped to the window, spotted her detectives—hanging on to each other as drunks do. Soundproofing and what she took to be new windows aside, she could hear them singing.

Top of the lungs, she imagined, in some sort of actual harmony.

Stumbling, falling-down drunks, carrying each other home.

Not bad.

She moved back to Roarke, who’d cut a thin line from the baseboard up about two feet, and began to cut another two feet away.

“Can’t you cut faster?”

“Do you want it quiet or fast?”

“Both.”

“Just hold your water, Lieutenant.”

“What does that even mean?”

“Don’t piss yourself,” Feeney informed her.

“Then it oughta be ‘don’t piss yourself.’ He’s nearly through.” She angled her recorder.

“Copy that. He shifted some, but they don’t have a clear shot. Your boys have his attention. Jeez, some street LC’s trying to work them. You see that?”

“I can live without seeing two of my detectives getting propped by an LC. We’ve got a hole. Going through.”

Even as she bellied down, Roarke slid in front of her. She tugged, jerked her thumb behind her, but he just shook his head, and wormed his way through.

“Roarke’s in,” she whispered. “I’m behind him.” She blocked out annoyance—who was the cop here—and slithered through into a room dark as pitch.

Roarke touched her arm, then switched on a penlight.

She followed it, scanning a room about the size of the one they’d left. She made out an air mattress, a sleeping bag, a batt-powered lamp, and a nearly empty bottle of liquor—maybe gin, maybe vodka. Folding table and chair, she noted, with a tablet and a small printer.