Page 43 of Obsession in Death

“All right.” He gave her a little poke in the belly. “Softie.”

“I can’t have my only wit going into the wind, can I? Or risk having the bug person coming back for her, just in case. She’ll work better with Yancy on a sketch if I don’t have to take her into protective custody.”

“You can play that line.” He leaned down to kiss her before she could evade. “Give me a minute to make the arrangements, on the assumption I can slide her right in.”

•••

With the arrangements made, Eve called in another black-and-white to transport Misty to Central, and to Detective Yancy, her choice of artist.

“She’s a little bit of an artist herself.” With Eve, Peabody loaded their field kits back in the trunk. “She painted the flowers on the boxes in there, and did the little pencil sketch of the cats hanging on the wall. It’s good you’re getting her out of here.”

“Her decision, Roarke’s place.”

“Still. Here come the sweepers—and the wagon.”

Eve waited, then walked over to Dawson. “Same team?”

“As requested.”

“Good, the fewer hands on this, the better. You’re going to need detox after processing that pit.” When he started to laugh, Eve shook her head. “True.”

“Crap.” He sighed, deep. “Fizz, Lottie, Charis! Hellhole time, with detox for dessert.”

There were groans as the team unloaded equipment and the full-coverage white suit of the sweeper.

“I’m calling in a handwriting analyst.”

His mouth thinned. “Another message for you?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ll tag Jen—Jen Kobechek. She’s the best we’ve got.”

“That’ll save me time. Appreciate it.”

“Gotta take care of each other.” He signaled to his crew. “Let’s sweep it out.”

Eve walked back, got into the car.

“You’re going to tell me we’re going underground,” Peabody began.

“Maybe not. Carmine Atelli owns Gametown. We dealt with him briefly when we went down for Ledo a couple years ago. He has a place in the Hudson Towers.”

“Swank.”

“A nest of rabid rats is swank compared to the underground.” Eve slid into traffic. “He’s more likely home this time of day than below, so we’ll check it. But we’re going to make another stop first.”

As it was still shy of nine, Eve tried Hilly Decker’s apartment first. The slapdash, post-Urbans triple-decker needed a face-lift, but it held its own in a neighborhood of struggling-to-claw-up-to-middle-income housing and shops.

Inside it smelled faintly of someone’s breakfast burrito. The inhuman wail of a baby rattled the walls of the first floor.

“Why do kids always make that sound? Like somebody’s stabbing them in the ear?”

“It’s about all they got,” Peabody told her. “Something hurts, they’re hungry or just pissed off, all they got is crying.”

“Strikes me they’re just pissed off most of the time.”

The sound eased slightly on the second level, or was drowned out more by someone playing a morning talk show at ear-thumping volume.

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