“Who’s captured, tortured, and killed twenty-four women.”
Eve merely scowled at Roarke. “I think if he goes through the goddamn window, I can take him. You two go ahead and set up all the e-toys you want. But let’s remember, it’s not just smoking him out. It’s getting in. For Rossi and Greenfeld to have a chance, we have to get to them. I have to get inside, let him think he’s lured me in. We take him outside his place, there’s no guarantee we’ll nail down where he’s keeping them.”
She had their attention now, waited a beat. “I’m not having these two women bleed or starve to death because we’re so worried about keeping my skin in place we take him down or put him down before we know where they are. Their safety is paramount. That’s a directive from the primary.”
Feeney rattled his bag of nuts, held it out to Roarke. “Gil and I boxed in a few locations and individuals worth checking out.”
“Peabody and I will take that. That’s SOP if he’s watching. Give me what you’ve got. How long before your shiny new toy gets here?” she asked Roarke.
“Should be along in ten or fifteen minutes now.”
“Good enough. I’ll go dig out the stupid vests.” She signaled to Peabody. “Roarke, you’re going to have to arrange your own transpo home.”
“Understood. Lieutenant, a moment.” Roarke walked with her to the door. “I want those women back, safe, as much as you. I also like your skin exactly where it is. We’re going to find a way to make all of that work. And that’s a directive from the man who loves you. So watch your ass, or I’ll be first in line to kick it.”
He knew she wouldn’t like it, but he needed it, so caught her chin in his hand and kissed her, hard and brief, before walking away.
“Awww.” Peabody sighed a little as she hustled out of the war room behind Eve. “That’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, ass-kickings are sugar in our house. Locker room. Vests.”
“Vests? That would be more than one?”
“I wear one, you wear one.”
“Aw,” Peabody repeated, but in an entirely different tone.
In under forty minutes they were in the garage, vested and wired. Peabody tugged on her jacket. “This makes me look fat, doesn’t it? I know it makes me look fat, and I’m still carrying a couple pounds of winter weight.”
“We’re not trying to distract the son of a bitch with your frosty figure, Peabody.”
“Easy for you to say.” Shifting, she tried to get a look at her reflection in a side-view mirror. “This damn thing thickens my entire middle, which doesn’t need any help in that area. I look like a stump. A tree stump.”
“Stumps don’t have arms and legs.”
“They have branches. But I guess if they have branches, they aren’t technically stumps. So what I look like is a stunted tree.” She dropped into the passenger seat. “I now have extra motivation for taking this bastard down. He’s made me look like a stunted tree.”
“Yeah, we’re going to fry his ass for that one.” Eve pulled out. “Watch for a tail. Activate, Dallas,” she said to test the recorder. “You copy?”
“Eyes and ears five-by-five,” Feeney responded. “Shadow will hang back, minimum of three blocks.”
“Copy that, remaining open while in the field.”
They took the former dead wagon rider first. He’d done well for himself, Eve mused. Had a dignified old brownstone all to himself in a quiet West Village neighborhood.
A droid answered the door-a stupendously designed female Eve would have gauged as more usual in the sexual gratification department than the domestic. Smoky eyes, smoky voice, smoky hair, all in a snug black skin-suit.
“If you’d like to wait in the foyer, I’ll tell Mr. Dobbins you’re here.” She walked off-more slinked off, Eve thought, like a lithe and predatory feline.
“If all she does is vacuum around here,” Peabody commented, “I’m a size two.”
“She may vacuum, after she polishes the old man’s brass.”
“Women are so crude,” Roarke said in her ear.
“Mute the chatter.” Eve studied the foyer.
More of a wide hallway, she noted, with the light coming in through the front door’s ornate glass panel. Doors on either side, kitchen area probably in the back. Bedrooms upstairs.
A lot of room for a man to shuffle around in.
He did just that, shuffled in on bunged-up slippers. He wore baggy sweats, and had his near-shoulder-length hair combed back and dyed a hard and improbable black.
His face was too thin, his mouth too full, his body too slight to be the man both Trina and Loni had spoken with.
“Mr. Dobbins.”
“That’s right. I want to see some identification, or you’re both turning right back around.”
He studied Eve’s badge, then Peabody’s, his mouth moving silently as he read. “All right then, what’s this about?”
“We’re investigating the murder of a woman in Chelsea,” Eve began.
“That Groom business.” Dobbins wagged a finger. “I read the papers, I watch the news, don’t I? If you people did your jobs and protected people you wouldn’t have to come around here asking me questions. Cops come around here years ago when that girl across the street was murdered.”
“Did you know her, Mr. Dobbins? The girl who was murdered nine years ago?”
“Saw her coming and going, didn’t I? Never spoke to her. Saw this new one’s picture on screen. Never spoke to her, either.”
“Did you ever see this new girl?” Eve asked.
“On the screen, didn’t I just say? Don’t get up to Chelsea. Got what I need right here, don’t I?”
“I’m sure you do. Mr. Dobbins, your father drove a morgue truck during the Urban Wars?”
“Dead wagon. I rode with him most days. Loaded up corpses right, left, and sideways. Got a live one now and again somebody took for dead. I want to sit down.”
He simply turned around and shuffled through the doorway to the right. After exchanging glances, Eve and Peabody followed.
The living area was stuffed with worn furniture. The walls might once have been some variation of white, but were now the dingy yellow of bad teeth.
Dobbins sat, took a cigarette from a tarnished silver tray, and lighted it. “A man can still smoke in his own damn house. You people haven’t taken that away. A man’s home is his damn castle.”
“You have a lovely home, Mr. Dobbins,” Peabody commented. “I love the brownstones in this area. We’re lucky so many of them survived the Urbans. That must’ve been a terrible time.”
“Not so bad. Got through it. Toughened me up, too.” He jabbed the air with the cigarette as if to prove it. “Seen more by the time I was twenty than most see in a hundred twenty.”
“I can’t even imagine. Is it true that there were so many dead in some areas, the only way to keep a record of them was to write an identification number right on the bodies?”
“That’s the way it was.” He blew out a stream of smoke, shook his finger. “Looters get to them first, they’d take everything, strip them right down. I’d write the sector we found them on the body so we could keep track. Haul them in, and the dead house doc would write the number after that, record it in a book. Waste of time mostly. Just meat by then anyway.”
“Do you keep in touch with anybody from back then? People who worked like you did, or the doctors, the medics?”
“What for? They find out you’ve got a little money, they just want a handout.” He shrugged it off. “Saw Earl Wallace a few years back. He’d ride shotgun on the wagon sometimes. Stirred myself to go to Doc Yumecki’s funeral, I guess five, six years back. Paid my respects. He was worth respecting, and there aren’t many. Gave him a nice send-off. Grandson did it. Waked him in the parlor instead of the main house, but it was a nice send-off all the same.”
“Would you know how to reach Mr. Wallace, or Dr. Yumecki’s grandson?”
“How the hell should I know? I check the obits. I see somebody I know who’s worth the time, I go to their send-off. Said we would back then, so I do.”