“Sir.” Trueheart stood stiff as a petrified redwood in the entry to Stiles’s dressing room. His face was white but for the high color skimming along his cheekbones. “I take full responsibility for the failure of the assignment given to me. I will accept, without qualification, any reprimand you deem appropriate.”

“First, stop talking like that droid Peabody’s reactivating. Second, you’re not responsible for the flight of this suspect. That’s on me.”

“Lieutenant, I appreciate you taking my inexperience into consideration in my failure to perform my duty and complete this assignment in a satisfactory manner—”

“Shut up, Trueheart.” Jesus God, spare her from rookies. “Peabody! Come in here.”

“I’ve nearly got the droid up and running, Dallas.”

“Peabody, tell Officer Trueheart here how I deal with cops who botch assignments or fail to complete same in what I deem a satisfactory manner.”

“Sir, you bust their balls, mercilessly. It can be very entertaining to watch. From a discreet and safe distance.”

“Thank you, Peabody. You make me proud. Trueheart, am I busting your balls?”

His flush spread. “Ah, no, sir. Lieutenant.”

“Then it follows that in my opinion, you didn’t botch this assignment. If my opinion was otherwise, you’d be curled on the floor, clutching said balls and begging for mercy, which Officer Peabody has succinctly pointed out I do not have. Are we clear?”

He hesitated. “Yes, sir?”

“That’s the right answer.” She turned away from him, studied the dressing area. The forest of clothes in different styles and sizes; the long, wide counter covered with bottles and tubes and sprays. Cubbyholes loaded with hairpieces, wigs. Drawers ruthlessly organized with other tools of the trade.

“He can make himself into anyone. I should’ve factored that in. Tell me who you did see leaving the building between eighteen-thirty and when I arrived on-scene. We’ll verify with the security discs from the exits, but be thorough.”

He nodded, and his eyes unfocused with concentration. “A couple, man and woman, white and white, thirty-five to forty. They hailed a Rapid and headed east. A single woman, mixed race, late twenties. She left on foot, in a westerly direction. Two men, black and white, early thirties. They returned within thirty minutes, carrying what appeared to be a twelve-pack of beer and a large pizza. A single man, mixed race, late forties, some facial hair.”

He stopped when Eve held up a hand. She lifted a small bag to show him a few strands of hair she’d already sealed for evidence. “Is this a color match?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again to press his lips together. “It’s difficult to say with certainty, Lieutenant, as the light was going. But the subject in question appeared to have dark hair very similar in shade to the bagged evidence.”

“Give me details. Height, weight, style of dress, appearance.”

She listened, trying to paint a picture of the transformation from Trueheart’s report.

“Okay, anyone else?”

He ran through the few people who’d left the building, but no one rang bells like the single mixed-race male.

“Was he carrying anything? A bag, a box, a parcel?”

“No, sir. He didn’t have anything with him.”

“Okay, then he’s likely still running with the same look. Call it in.”

“Sir?”

“Call in your description, Trueheart. Add it to the all-points.”

His face lit up like a birthday candle. “Yes, sir!”

• • •

It was blind luck that he was spotted. Eve would think about that later, and for a long time after. Blind luck.

It was a twist of fate that the express running to and from Toronto experienced a malfunction on its way into Grand Central. The delay would make all the difference.

But when the break came, Eve jammed her communicator back in her pocket. “Grand Central. Let’s move.”

Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery
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