"I can ask Zeke to take a look at it."
"I thought he was a carpenter."
"He's good at everything. He can tinker with the innards, then you just get the glass replaced, the roof patched. It won't be pretty, but you won't have to turn the whole deal over to maintenance or enter the black hole of requisitions."
Something inside the dash controls began to rattle ominously. "When could he do it?"
"Soon as you want." She slid Eve a sidelong glance. "He'd really like to see your house. I told him about it, how you've got that mag old wood and furniture and stuff."
Eve shifted in her seat. "I thought you were going to a play or something tonight."
"I'll tag him, tell him not to get the tickets."
"I don't know if Roarke has plans."
"I'll check with Summerset."
"Shit. All right, okay."
"That's so gracious of you, sir." Happily, Peabody took out her palm 'link to call her brother.
They found Ratso at The Brew, contemplating a plate of what looked like undercooked brains. He blinked up as Eve slid into the booth across from him.
"These are supposed to be eggs. How come they ain't yellow?"
"Must be from gray chickens."
"Oh." Apparently satisfied with that, he dug in. "So what's up, Dallas? You got the guys who done Fixer?"
"I've got some lines to tug. What have you got?"
"Word is nobody sees Fixer that night. Don't expect to, 'cause he don't come out at night usual. But Pokey – you know Pokey, Dallas, he deals some Zoner if he scores enough, and does some street work as an LC."
"I don't believe Pokey and I are acquainted."
"Pokey's all right. Mostly he minds his own, you know? He says how he was doing street work that night. Not much business 'cause it's too fucking cold to fuck, you know? But he was tapped out, so he's out on the stroll, and he sees a van down from The Fixer's place. Nice new one. Figures how somebody's come around looking for some action, but there ain't nobody in it he can see. Said he scoped it out awhile in case somebody comes back and wants a quick poke. That's why they call him Pokey, he gives a real quick poke."
"I'll keep that in mind. What kind of van was it?"
Ratso toyed with his eggs and tried to look sly. "Well, see, I told Pokey you'd want to know stuff, and if it was solid data, you'd pay."
"I don't pay until I get the data. Did you tell him that?"
Ratso sighed. "Yeah, guess I did. Okay, okay, he says it was one of them fancy Airstreams, looked spanking, was black. Had zap security." Ratso smiled a little. "He knows 'cause he tried to get in and got the zap. So he's dancing and blowing on his hand and he hears a kinda commotion down the street."
"What kind of commotion?"
"I dunno. Like noise and maybe somebody yelling, and people coming. So he ducks around the corner in case who owns the van maybe saw him trying to break in. What he sees is two guys and one of 'em's carrying this big bag over his shoulder. The other – get this – is holding what Pokey says looks like a gun – like he's seen on-screen and on discs and shit. So they toss this bag in the back, and it makes a thump when it hits. Then they get in the front and drive away."
He scooped up more eggs, washed them down with the pissy-looking liquid in his glass. "I'm just sitting here thinking on it and wondering if I should tag you and fill you in, then here you are." He grinned at her. "Maybe it was Fixer in that bag. Maybe they took him off in it, and did him and tossed him in the river. Maybe."
"Pokey get the vehicle ID?"
"Nah. Pokey, he's not too smart, you know. And he said his hand was on fire and he didn't think nothing of it until I come around asking about Fixer."
"Black Airstream van?"
"Yeah, with the zapper. And oh yeah, he says how it had the full blast entertainment center in the dash. That's how come he thought maybe to get in. Pokey, he sometimes trades off electronics."
"Sounds like a real solid citizen."
"Yeah, he votes and everything. So how about it, Dallas, that's good data, right?"
She took out twenty. "If it leads anywhere, there's twenty more. Now, how much do you know about Fixer's military history?"
The twenty vanished inside one of the pockets in Ratso's dirty coat. "History?"
"What he did in the army? He ever talk to you about it?"
"Not much. Couple times when we was drinking and he sucked down too many. He said he took out plenty of targets during the Wars. Said how the army called 'em targets 'cause they didn't have the balls to call them people. He had a real hard-on for the army. Said how he gave them every fucking thing he had, and they took everything. Um, how they thought they could throw money at him to make it right. He took their money and screw 'em. Screw the cops, too, and the CIA and the goddamn president of the U.S. of A., too. But that was only when he was sloppy. Otherwise, he never said nothing."
"Have you ever heard anything about Apollo or Cassandra?"
Ratso swiped a hand under his nose. "Table dancer over at the Peek-A-Boo goes by Cassandra. She got tits like watermelons."
Eve shook her head. "No, this is something else. You ask around, Ratso, but ask around real careful. And if you hear anything, don't wonder if you should tag me. Just do it."
"Okay, but I'm kinda low on operating expenses."
She rose, then tossed another twenty on the table. "Don't waste my money," she warned. "Peabody."
"I'll start the run on Airstream vans," Peabody said, "New York and New Jersey registrations."
"Goddamn it!" Eve dashed toward her vehicle. "Look at this shit, would you?" she demanded, jerking a thumb toward the bright red frowny face someone had painted on her dented hood. "No respect. No respect whatsoever for city property."
Peabody coughed, forced her face into stern, disapproving lines. "It's a disgrace, sir. Absolutely."
"Was that a smirk, Officer?"
"No sir, it certainly was not a smirk. It was a scowl. A righteous scowl. Should I canvas the area for spray cans, Lieutenant?"
"Kiss my ass." Eve slammed into the car, giving Peabody just enough time to snort out the laugh that had been burning in her chest.
"I do," she murmured. "Constantly." She let out a long breath, shook off the grin, and climbed in the passenger seat.
"We'll finish out the shift at my home office. I'll be damned if I'm going to park this thing in the garage and have the precinct snickering."
"That works for me. You've got better food." And there'd be no chance of McNab swinging through to do one of his tap dances.
"Have you got Lisbeth Cooke's address? We can swing by and see if we can catch her before we take the rest of this home."
"Yes, sir, I believe it's on the way." Peabody called it up. "That's just off Madison at Eighty-third. Should I call and set up an interview?"
"No, let's surprise her."
It was obvious they did, and that Lisbeth didn't care for surprises. "I don't have to speak to you," she said when she opened the door. "Not without my attorney present."
"Call him," Eve suggested. "Since you've got something to hide."
"I've got nothing to hide. I've given you my statement, I've interviewed with the prosecuting attorney's office. I've taken the plea, and that's it."
"Since it's all neat and tidy, it shouldn't bother you to talk to me. Unless everything you stated was a lie."
Lisbeth's eyes flashed. Her chin jutted. Pride, Eve saw, had been the right target.
"I don't lie. I insist on honesty, for myself and the people I'm involved with. Honesty, loyalty, and respect."
"Otherwise, you kill them. We've established that."
Something flickered in Lisbeth's eyes, then her mouth thinned and they were cool and hard again. "What do you want?"
"Just a few questions to tidy up my case file." Eve angled her head. "Don't you include neatness in your list of required virtues?"