Thankless in Death (In Death 37)

“Anytime.” He slipped his shades back on, strolled out.

She started making contacts herself, switching from full-service furnishings—a much smaller list—to gourmet markets when the computer spat that out. Then back again.

She juggled in conversations with building security and/or management. And had batted zero when Peabody poked in.

“I hit on the pizza.”

Her gradually-going-pissy mood jumped high. “Jesus, for a pie? Where is he?”

“Not that big a hit. But Vinnie’s sold a droid—matching the description of ours—the pie last night. It’s a different guy on the counter now, but the manager checked the discs for me.”

“I want a copy.”

“Already sent and copied.” Peabody handed it over.

“Did he call in the order?”

“No, the droid came in and ordered.”

“What time did the droid get the pizza?”

“Time stamp’s twenty-three-twenty-one on the order.”

“Nighttime hungries,” Eve mused. “Check on cabs—dropoffs, pickups at the pizzeria.”

“Already got that in.”

Eve ordered the pizzeria onto the map.

“I’m betting no cab, but if I’m wrong, we got really lucky.” Frowning at the map, she picked up the closest subway stations. “Mass transit’s possible, but still probably not. Not that he’d have a problem sending the droid on a mile hike to get a pizza, but I’m going with reasonable walking distance. You want pizza after eleven at night, you don’t want to wait a damn hour or more.

“Routines,” she thought aloud again. “Habits, favorites. He’s got a place close by what he knows. No other way.” It justified the time she’d spent on the damn map, and real estate, furniture.

“Okay, I’m going to generate another map, using the pizza joint as the bull’s-eye. Try a ten-block perimeter around it. It’s going to cut the options down more. And I want pictures of the morph, and of the stolen droid at every shop in this sector, every diner, market, restaurant, glide-cart, street vendor. I want them in the hands of every beat cop, street LC, sidewalk sleeper, and illegals dealer.”

“That’ll be a trick.”

“I’ll squeeze a couple thousand out of the budget for a reward—information leading to capture. And yeah, look pained because we’re going to get a few million bogus sightings, but Reinhold’s here, and even saying he’s got the plushest of plush new digs, he’s going to want to get out and about. He has to live, right, and he’s damn well going to go after his next target sooner rather than later. Local clinics, too, in case he hits one for more pain meds. Get it done.”

“Getting it done.”

Eve turned back to the screen. “Okay, you bastard, let’s figure this out.”

An hour into it, she got up for more coffee. As she lifted the mug, she glanced toward her skinny window.

It was pouring outside.

“All right!” She pumped a fist in the air. “Let’s go rain!”

She executed a quick, happy boogie, did a spin, and spotted Roarke in her doorway.

“I had no idea you were so fond of inclement weather.”

“Rain, think about it. Big, pounding rain. No outside ceremony. They’ll have to move it inside.”

“And that matters?”

“To me. It’s”—she wiggled her shoulders, winced—“weird doing it out there, in front of the whole damn city. Inside it’s cops, and some politicians.”