Dark in Death (In Death 46)

“Oh shit.”

Leonardo grabbed Bella, turned her face into his shoulder. He went pale and glassy-eyed himself even when he deliberately looked away from the board.

Moving fast, Eve snatched up her coat, tossed it over the board to cover the crime scene photos.

“Sorry. Shit, sorry.”

“Shit,” Bella echoed against her father’s broad shoulder.

“And again, sorry.”

“Hey, Bellissima.” Cool and calm, Mavis to

ok her from Leonardo and gestured toward the sketch of Eve done by a young survivor. “Who is that?”

“Das!” Ow forgotten, Bella threw back her head, gave her big belly laugh. “Das!”

Remembering how Leonardo reacted to the sight of blood and violence, and there’d been plenty of it on the board, Eve pulled out her desk chair.

“Thanks. I don’t know how you do what you do. I don’t know how anybody does.”

“Got any of Mira’s tea in the AC?” Mavis asked.

“Yeah. Give me a second.”

“I’ll get it. Hey, Bella, let’s make Daddy some tea. Just think happy thoughts, moonpie.”

She managed them, Eve thought. Her friend, the former grifter, the woman who changed her hair color more often than some changed their socks, the music-vid star and walking rainbow, handled the big man and the little girl as naturally, as smoothly, as if she’d trained for it all her life.

With Bella on her hip, she set the tea on the desk, leaned down to kiss Leonardo’s cheek. “We’re going to sit on the floor here, and play with our blocks.”

“Das!”

“Dallas has to work, my baby doll, but we get to play.”

She sat on the floor, pulled a bag of colorful blocks out of the enormous pink-and-green handbag.

“Okay then. Here’s the deal.” Eve leaned on the desk, brought Leonardo’s attention to her. “She’s about forty, and she relocated from Delaware about two years ago. She’d live alone, on a budget. She’d be unlikely to socialize or make an impression. With her work, yeah, but not otherwise. Not the sort that draws attention, more slides into the background. She writes. She’s probably a reader. She’s going to seem harmless. She’s going to have her own professional machine at home. She’s likely to do side work.”

“A lot of tailors do side work. Off the books. I did myself when I was just getting started.”

“Did you go to clients’ homes?”

“Once you establish a relationship? That’s usually what you do. If you have a place, they might come to you, but usually, you’re offering them the convenience. A fitting, alterations of something they already have, sometimes an original design.”

“How do they find you?”

“Word of mouth.” He sipped tea and seemed to relax again. “If you’re working in a shop—department store, boutique—you’d slip them a card, let them know you’d be happy to come to them for a job. Big or small. If you’re working for another tailor, you’d have to be really careful about that—some will fire you on the spot. If she doesn’t socialize, it’s harder. It might be she gets side work from having a customer approach her.”

“Okay, got that.”

“I’ve still got contacts from my early days. I can ask around.”

“I’m going to give you the sketch, and ask you to do just that. If you get a hit, remember, she’s not harmless. Just tag me.”

She stopped when her comp signaled. Turning to the screen, she felt the lift, the buzz as she studied the ID shot side-by-side with the sketch.

“Ann Elizabeth Smith. Average name, average face. No more fading,” she stated. “I’ve got the bitch.”