Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

She closed her eyes again, tried to bring it back. The chase, tried to edit out all the people, the noise, the movement.

“She kept the box under her arm. Can’t say what was in it, can’t judge the weight, but she kept it tucked in, like a running back with the ball heading toward the goal. Shoving with the other hand,” Eve added, making the motion herself. “Pushing, shoving, elbow jabbing, but never slowing down. Focused. Okay.”

She opened her eyes again, turned. “She knew that restaurant. Goddamn it, that wasn’t just luck. She was hauling her ass right there, knows the neighborhood, knew she could jump in there, make that end run toward the kitchen and out. She’s been in there before.”

“Scoping out Mavis’s area?”

“That, sure, that. But she’s b

een in that place, knew the setup. No need to know that to scope out Mavis. We’ll get the image over there, show the owners, the staff. Maybe somebody knows her.”

She came back for her coffee.

“You lived there,” Roarke pointed out. “In that building, only a couple blocks away from that restaurant.”

“It wasn’t there, not with those people when I . . . She’s tuned into me. That’s my old neighborhood. I got that place because it was close enough to Central to make it smooth. Not a long haul to the morgue, to the lab.”

“Why wouldn’t she do the same?” Roarke proposed. “If she works in any of those facilities, or wishes she did, if she’s obsessed with you, why not live in the same area you did? Walk the same sidewalks, eat and drink and shop where you did.”

“She could’ve run into the Chinese place, but it has a different setup—it’s narrow and it doesn’t have that little alley off the back like the bar. She had enough of a lead to keep going, and yeah, yeah, get across the next intersection, maybe gain some distance if I got hung up with the traffic again. But she swung around that corner, never hesitated. She aimed for it.”

She sat on the desk. “Plug it in, will you? You’re faster. Narrow the search. Let’s see if we can find somebody who meets this basic description who lives within a six-block radius of my old building.”

“It’s a lot of ground,” he told her as he made the adjustments. “And unlikely to get quick results.”

“Results works well enough for now. I’m going to use the auxiliary, get the image out.”

“Take your pie,” he suggested.

Some risks were worth taking. It was a matter of principle.

The delivery-person gear that had served so well wouldn’t do now. But with some adjustments, the same ploy would work.

The peacoat—ordinary, simple. Not quite as bulky as the brown, and a bit shorter, but it would serve. The navy cap with earflaps and bill, pulled low, but with just a little hair from the short wig straggling out beneath it—a dull dark brown bought months before, and with cash. Still, it paid to seal it, and to remember to take care before removing it during the real work.

Couldn’t wear shades, but the bill of the cap would help there. Old black boots, already sealed, with thick black trousers bagging over them.

The makeup added a nice touch, darkening the skin on the face a few shades. And it covered the carefully applied putty that broadened the bridge of the nose. The appliance over the teeth—annoying—altered the shape of the mouth, added a distinct overbite.

That’s what a witness would remember if anyone bothered to look and see. Dark complexion, overbite, short, straggly dark brown hair.

Add the plaid scarf—navy and gray, bundled and wrapped over the chin, then the navy gloves over hands already sealed, and the bulk of a tattered black messenger bag.

She studied herself now in the full-length triple mirror, assessing every angle, every detail. Compared it inch by inch with the sketches the department had released.

Without the lifts she was nearly two inches shorter, and without the brown coat not as stocky in appearance.

No one would look at the messenger and see the delivery person.

Like going undercover, she thought. Eve would appreciate that. Eve would understand the time and trouble it took to make yourself into someone else to do what needed doing.

She’d better start appreciating.

Before strapping on the messenger bag, she checked the contents yet again. More sealant, in case, protective suit, high-powered flashlight to check the scene for trace, tweezers on the slim chance of trace, bags for sealing anything if necessary.

Clamp for the tongue, though she planned something different this time. A little addition to the routine. And another kind of message.

Thinking of it, she lifted out the thin, sharp scalpel in its protective case.