Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(69)

“Can you get into Central?”

“Yeah. The subway should be running. Man, it’s so pretty out there.”

“Get in as soon as you can. If you need transpo, I’ve got an all-terrain.”

“I’ll check with Transport before we leave, make sure the trains are running. If not, I’ll tag you. Only official and emergency vehicles allowed on the streets until oh-nine-hundred, so no cabs or buses.”

“Yeah, and that’s what I call pretty.”

Eve clicked off and made her way downtown, easily breezing through blinking lights and empty intersections. Maybe, possibly … probably, she’d get bored with this kind of quiet, but for one morning’s commute, she’d take it. Halfway downtown, she realized not a single ad blimp had drifted across the sky to blast its hyperactive news about sales on something, somewhere.

She’d definitely take it.

She noted when she reached the garage that her level held only a scatter of vehicles. And the elevator carried no more than a handful of cops, several with snow melting off their boots, all the way to Homicide.

Maybe it was just a little spooky.

When she walked into her bullpen, she saw Baxter at his desk—kicked back in his chair, feet up, eyes closed. He wore one of his slick suits with an unknotted tie draped around his neck. She walked over, punched him in the shoulder.

He shot straight up, one hand slapping his weapon.

“Nap on your own time.”

“Jesus. What time is it?” He looked blearily around the empty bullpen. “Where is everybody?”

“They’d better be en route.”

“Right. Right.” He scrubbed his face with both hands. “Trueheart and I caught one last night. Couple of guys decided it would be lots of fun to have lots and lots of drinks, smoke lots of illegals, and blast music loud enough people in apartments two floors down were complaining. Across-the-hall neighbor, who’d also done some copious drinking, decided, after several attempts to get them to knock it off, to bust in there and smash their player with a baseball bat. This action was cheered by many other occupants of the building, condemned by others.

“Violence ensued. Numerous injuries and one fatality.”

“Snow makes some people crazier than they already are.”

“Tell me. By the time we wrapped it up, it was too late and too bad out there to go home. We bunked in the crib. Might as well sidewalk sleep,” he complained, trying to work kinks out of his neck and shoulders. “My boy’s in the shower.”

“But you wrapped it up?”

“Yeah, wrapped and packed. Report’s in your box.”

“Okay then. I’m pulling in you and Trueheart to conduct interviews.”

Baxter’s sleepy eyes cleared with interest. “The Strazza murder? The serial rapist Nikki’s working?”

She glanced over as Trueheart came out of the locker room, his hair still showing damp from his shower, his young, earnest face all but dewy.

“Loo’s drafted us, pal. Come on and get briefed.”

“I’ll copy you on the file,” Eve began. “Basically, the suspect targets wealthy married couples, childless, in single-family residences. He possesses the skills to bypass their security, enter the residences. In the first two incidents, he laid in wait until the couple came home. In this last, he entered the premises during a dinner party, walked right by outside contractors and up the main stairs. He disables the male, restrains him.”

She punched her way through the details, the connections, the theories.

“Using the guest list from this charity event all known victims attended, we’ve extrapolated most likely future targets. It’s probable he’s attended other events and functions, earmarked targets there, but it’s a decent bet there’ll be some cross. I’m going to give you five. Arrange face-to-faces, walk them through what they need to know, find out if they use the caterer, the rental place, know or socialize with any of the other vics. You know the drill.”

“We’ll get it covered, boss.”

“Um, Lieutenant?” Trueheart half raised his hand. “Our usual vehicle probably won’t handle the current road conditions.”

“Requisition an all-terrain.”

She glanced around as Jenkinson came in, snarling, his blindingwhite snowflakes on a fiery red background tie leading.

“Didn’t they know it was coming?” he demanded of his partner as Reineke, smirking some, came in with him. “Didn’t they?” He threw out his arms to the nearly empty bullpen.

“Problem, Jenkinson?” Eve asked.

“Yeah, there’s a problem. Damn straight there’s a problem with the basic infrastructure and maintenance of this city we serve and protect.”

Reineke slapped Jenkinson’s arm. “I’m gonna get us come coffee, partner.” So saying he walked toward the break room, giving Eve a wild eye roll on the way.

“Weather guys all say the storm’s coming. Hold on to your asses, boys, it’s gonna hit. But are we prepared?” Jenkinson demanded, arms out like an evangelist preaching to the flock. “No, we are not.”

He tossed his coat on his desk chair, stomping that way on boots crusted with snow.

“I was fucking prepared. I tag my kids, tell them to get over to the skinny-ass garage I pay my left nut for every month, clear the snow from the door so I can get my vehicle in there. And they do, my kids do the job, so I get home, park it up. And what do you think happened? I’ll tell you what happened,” he ranted before Eve could respond. “I come out this morning, wade down there over sidewalks nobody’s cleared along streets the crews have half-assly cleared, and see they’ve shoved a couple feet of that fucking snow right in front of the garage door. What the fuck, LT!”