Visions in Death (In Death 19)
Page 88
“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’s eyes 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’s, with an easy skill that told her he’d likely been doing so since he could stand.
He had a ruddy face, a thatch of sandy hair, and eyes that skimmed and scanned the room like a cop’s.
He’d be the man to see.
“I’ve never had a Guinness,” Peabody commented.
“You’re not having one now.”
“Yeah, on duty and all. But I’m going to have to try one sometime. Except they look a little scary and they cost beyond.”
“Get what you pay for.”
“Huh. Yet another tip.”
Eve stepped up to the bar. Its tender pushed pints into waiting hands, then worked his way down. “Officers,” he said.
“You’ve got good eyes. Mr. O’Hara?”