Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(70)

“Bastards.”

“Damn straight. Ends up, I flag down a black-and-white to haul me in, pick up Reineke. And my kids are bitching—can’t blame ’em—that they’ve got to go back over, dig me out a-fucking-gain.”

“Requisition an all-terrain.”

He opened his mouth, more raging on the tip of his tongue. Then angled his head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You might as well have one on tap in case, and do it now before everybody else gets the same idea and we’re out. Meanwhile, you and Reineke hold down the fort.”

Reineke came out with coffee, shoved one at Jenkinson. “Tell him it’s not going to do any good to call and bitch at the mayor, Dallas.”

“It’s not going to do any good to call and bitch at the mayor.”

Jenkinson’s face settled into a haughty sulk. “It’s the principle.”

“It’s the politics,” Eve corrected. “I need you holding the wheel if I don’t make it back in from the field today. Remember?” She gestured to the squad slogan posted over the break room door. “That holds for before, during, and after snowstorms and shitty road-crew work.”

Jenkinson sighed, gulped coffee. “Yeah, but I bet nobody blocked the mayor’s car in.”

“Five’ll get you ten the mayor’s buried under irate ’link calls, e-mails, v-mails, and texts this morning.”

The idea had Jenkinson brightening. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s something.”

“If Peabody comes in, tell her to keep her coat on. We’re heading out in ten.”

Eve escaped to her office, got her own coffee. At her desk, she sent the list to Olsen and Tredway, to Baxter and Trueheart, earmarking names for each team to contact. She sent Baxter and Trueheart a copy of the case file, put a brief update together for Olsen and Tredway.

She skimmed Baxter’s report on the case they’d closed, found it—as expected—competent and thorough. Noted Carmichael and Santiago had caught one at roughly six-thirty that morning. Bludgeoning with a snow shovel.

Yeah, snow could make some people crazier than they already were.

She walked out to see Peabody, and a couple of uniforms who’d just logged in, listening while Jenkinson ran through his rant again.

“Peabody, with me.”

Peabody trotted to catch up. “Jenkinson’s on a tear.”

“I know. He already ripped through it once. Do I need to catch you up?”

“I read the update on the subway. No problem getting a seat this morning. Lots taking a snow day or working at home.”

“I sent our share of the list to your PPC. Start plugging in addresses when we get to the garage.”

“Do you want me to contact the couples first?”

“Let’s just do drop bys, see how it goes. Plug in the bartender/actor. We’ll pay him a visit.”

“Anson Wright—changed his name from George Splitsky when he turned eighteen. I ran through his education—average student, except in drama, theater, and stagecraft. There he excelled. Performed and participated in all the school plays, and even got a couple of walk-ons and minor parts on and off Broadway as a child and young teen.”

When they got to the car, Peabody took out her book, began transferring addresses. “Hit a dry spell, took a bartending class, joined the community players. He’s got an agent, and apparently goes out for auditions. Gets a part now and then. Nothing he could live on, and he lives pretty close to the top line of his income. When I worked my way through the maze, I found out he’s the nephew of the stepmother of the head waitress’s cohab.”

Peabody ordered the in-dash to list the addresses in order of distance. “Looks like our closest is Dana Mireball and Lorenzo Angelini, both artists, Tribeca.”

Roarke’s A-T laughed at shitty road-crew work, and muscled its way over the snow-crusted ice with a smooth, satisfied hum. The sun decided to bust out—which brought out the carts, the street vendors with scarves, caps, gloves, shovels, gray-market boots, and window scrapers.

Pedestrians began to pick their way along sidewalks. Kids, busted out of school for the day, raced, airboarded, and generally looked maniacally happy.

By the time they’d worked through the first five on the list, the traffic was back in force. The ad blimps boomed out the thrill of the Blizzard of ’61 sales.

Eve hated to admit it, but it all felt more normal.

They moved from arty loft to dignified townhouse, from slick converted warehouse to ultra-modern residence.

She didn’t feel a real buzz until number seven on the list.

Toya L’Page and Gray Burroughs lived in what had once been a church in Turtle Bay. The tall, arched doors opened directly onto the sidewalk. The stained-glass window over it gleamed color in the winter sun.

Eve gave her information and her badge for screening to the door comp, waiting until that door opened. A teenage girl with short, spiky, plum-colored hair peered at Eve with enormous brown eyes.

“Are you really cops?” she demanded.

Eve held up her badge again, and the girl sniffed.

“Like you can’t buy fake ID.”

“Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. Check with Cop Central if you’re worried about it. Otherwise we’d like to speak to Toya L’Page and/or Gray Burroughs.”