Forgotten in Death(20)

He slurped more coffee, gave her a long eyeballing over it.

“Jesus, Feeney, you know he wouldn’t—”

“Shit, Dallas, I’m not saying that. I’m thinking about maybe tagging him up, seeing if he’s got time and room to consult on it.”

“That’s up to you and Roarke.”

“I’m thinking about it. It’s a challenge, this here. Pretty slick, pretty fucking smart. I can’t say I’m not enjoying it, but Roarke could maybe add to it.”

“Was it one of his security systems?”

“No, and that might be their mistake. Who knows? They had it privately designed. It’s good, and I’m saying it’s goddamn good. Somebody knew his shit to get through it.”

“Like maybe one of the designers.”

Feeney smiled, full teeth. “Looking there, but we’re on the tech. Once we get through the one that’s breaking, make a little more headway on the second, I can spare McNab or Callendar for you, for short sprints. You know the kid’s spending his off time working with Roarke on a personalized security system for the house Mavis and Leonardo bought.”

“Yeah, I knew that. And Peabody’s burying me, when she catches me off guard, in tile samples and paint color and Christ knows for their end of the place.” Then she shrugged. “It’s going to be good for all of them. Anyway, there’s no real rush on my e’s, not yet. I’ve got other avenues to work.”

“Give me an overview. I need to clear my brain cells for a few.”

So saying, he picked up a wonky bowl—his wife’s creation—from his desk and offered Eve the candied almonds inside.

Unlike his coffee, his almonds were top-notch. She popped one into her mouth as she started her rundown.

“Looks like we’re both looking at inside jobs. You likely have two a few decades apart.”

“Yeah, and the Singer business has hooks in both.”

And that bugged her. Bugged the crap out of her.

“The guy in charge now, he doesn’t give me the buzz, but some hide that really well. He’s pretty well covered on the older murder—away at college—and since he owns the place, it’s hard to work out why he’d bash somebody for seeing him there. But you’ve gotta look.”

“You’ve already got the expert consultant, civilian, on the construction angle. Still…” Feeney looked back at his screen. “I might give him a tag.”

She looked at the screen, and couldn’t decipher the figures and symbols. But Roarke could. “He’ll have more fun with you. I’ve got to get going.”

She popped another almond on her way out. “Good hunting.”

“Back at you,” he said, and refocused on the screen.

As she made her way to Homicide, her PPC signaled.

No results, she read on her national search. She tagged Roarke. Feeney could do the same, she thought—and, yeah, Roarke would enjoy the challenge, but she needed an e-man now.

“Lieutenant.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Listen, I know you’re tied up with the Hudson Yards site, but there’s nothing much I can do on that one until DeWinter’s done her thing. And I had to put my first vic ahead on that. Morris found some old injuries—it looks like regular physical abuse—and I need her to confirm a time line.”

“All right.”

“Meanwhile I need some e-work, and Feeney’s slammed. He’s probably going to tag you on the hottest of the three they’re working.”

“The Monet.”

“You know about it?”

He smiled at her. “Not directly. Water Lilies, 1916. A brilliant work, and worth well over a hundred million. Double that to a private collector. Wouldn’t it be fun to consider how it was done, and who wanted that particular painting?”

He would have once, she thought.

And nobody would have caught him.

“I figured, and what I need’s not so much fun. My vic doesn’t show up on a national search. She popped up as Alva Quirk for a space of time, but nothing before. No records. So she had them wiped. I figure she got tired of being tuned up, took off, did what she could to go into the wind. I need to find her.”

“A thorough washing of official records takes considerable skill or money. Or both.”

“You could determine if it’s that thorough.”

“I could, yes. I’ve still some scheduling to untangle, and if I understand you, we’ll be shut down for several days or more, but for Building One.”

“I have to prioritize.”

“Understood. Send me what you have on your victim. I’ll see what I can do when I can do it. Ah, and Feeney’s tagging me now.”

“Me, first.”

He smiled again. “Darling Eve, you’re always first. Now, I do wonder what the NYPSD did without me.”

“I look at it this way. We’re saving the world from somebody who can steal a dead French guy’s flower painting. See you later.”

She clicked off, and turned into Homicide.

The only carnival in her bullpen lived in Jenkinson’s tie. To her eye, it looked like a sunset on Pluto, after the sun went nova.

She wondered it didn’t burn through his shirt.

Deliberately she walked down into her office, retrieved the sunshades she put in a drawer. She slid them on and walked back to the bullpen.