Devoted in Death (In Death 41)

“Fuck me. Why can’t you just say put up the damn map, and it puts up the damn map?”

As, essentially, you could, Roarke kept his thoughts to himself.

He headed down Seventh Avenue, and once south of the West Village, began to hunt with her.

“I’m not going to let them take another. It may be too late for Campbell. Her chances are razor-thin, and that goes for Mulligan because I think they might go for the double-kill.”

“A bigger thrill.”

“And that’s all it’s about now. All it was ever about. Let’s try that lot.”

They wound through a parking garage, level by level, drove out again, cut east.

She studied every vehicle, every pedestrian.

“It’s the perfect cover for them,” she said as they tried another lot. “Everyone’s bundled up, less people on the street. Even the chemi-heads and dealers take it inside or underground in weather like this.”

They gave it an hour, covering every section of every block, driving through parking structures, into and out of lots.

“Try this one.” She gestured to a private multilevel for a run of buildings. “We’ll park, and I’ll do a quick canvass on foot. You can wait for me.”

“Really?”

His really was another man’s fat chance, she thought.

“You could. You won’t, but you could. We’ll take this last one tonight, do the foot patrol, and count on Feeney’s drones in the morning.”

He doubted she knew it was going onto midnight. She had the scent, couldn’t quite give it up and settle down to hunt fresh the next day.

So they’d scan another three levels of vehicles, he thought as he circumvented the permit requirement, drove smoothly in. Then they’d take a very unlovely winter’s walk.

On the second level, she grabbed his arm. “Stop! There. That van. New York plates, but the rest fits. Navy-blue, tinted windows, the right make and model. Change the plates, just an extra cover.”

She yanked out her PPC, more comfortable with that than the in-dash, ran the registered plates.

“Registered to Anthony Charles Lappans, age seven-three, East Broadway address, and that’s not only not here, it’s near Kuper’s dump site. Keep an eye out.”

She jumped out of the all-terrain, shoved her coat back for easy access to her weapon, and approached the van.

She gestured to the sticker on the back window, circled the van, then walked back. “I’m going to get a warrant, but you’re right here, right now.”

Understanding, he got out, took out his pocket tools. After a quick glance at the lock, he selected what he wanted. He had the rear doors open in seconds.

Inside Eve studied a bulky armchair, a tool bag, a balled-up blanket, and spots and stains she’d bet her badge were dried blood.

“Close it back up, will you, and open the passenger door.”

“Dog gets the bone,” he murmured as he did as she asked.

“What?”

“You don’t give up. Just keep on digging until you have the bone. Your killers are also very untidy.”

“Yeah, isn’t that handy?” Her lips spread in a feral smile as she studied the litter of fast-food bags, disposable go-cups and receipts. “I don’t suppose there’s a field kit in that new ride of yours?”

“There is, of course, but I think all you’ll want at this point is…” He took tweezers out of his kit.

Nodding, she used them to lift one of the receipts. “From a Stop ’N Go in New Jersey. Another from a café here, on West Broad.