Page 145 of Thankless in Death

It took under an hour because traffic was nonexistent and she went in hot. And, what the hell, came back the same way.

She managed to avoid the relatives when she dashed into the house and up, but she heard them—hushed adult voices, babies crying, kids chattering.

And found Roarke already at work in his comp lab.

“He’s not there,” she announced. “And there’s no sign of duress or violence. I had a quick conversation with the woman he stood up. She’s worried now instead of pissed. And I woke McNab, had him run a trace on Asshole Joe’s ’link. Can’t trace it, because it’s turned off. If and when it’s turned back on, we’ll see. And why are your relatives up and swarming around at barely six in the morning?”

“Middle of the morning in Ireland,” he reminded her. “And that doesn’t address the fact many of them are farmers who’d be up at six in any case. I’m getting somewhere here, and might have better luck if you stopped talking.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but stopped talking long enough to program more coffee.

“Reinhold’s got him.”

Roarke turned away from his work. Impatience simmered inside him—he knew he was close to something. But he could see, clearly, the stress on her face.

“Men will grab strange, darling, with the smallest provocation.”

“Yeah, pigs. But, he had reservations at a hot spot, which he never canceled or used. I woke up the manager at the restaurant for that one. She was not pleased. He left work bragging about a potential new client—a rich one—I woke up his boss for that—he was okay with it. And I’ve got McNab going in to check Asshole’s work comp and ’link, in case there’s something on there about the new client. But—”

“You think Reinhold—the new client—tagged Asshole Joe on his personal ’link, so no record there. And if Asshole Joe did any checking, he also did that on his personal PPC.”

“That’s just what I think, but McNab—who damn well better be okay with it—will make sure.

“He’s not dead yet.”

It wasn’t a question, Roarke noted, not even a supposition. She said it with absolute certainty.

“Because he’d want to prolong the power and excitement.”

“And the pain. He’s added time with each kill.” Thinking it through, sticking with logic, with pattern, she paced off the tension. “From the time line, Asshole Joe probably got to the location after eighteen hundred. About then anyway. Reinhold would want time. A day, maybe two. And he’d know, unless he’s cut himself off, and I don’t buy that, that today’s a big holiday. That Joe would be expected somewhere. Given the notifications, the media, the investigation, when he doesn’t show up today, we’d start looking.”

She paced around, gulping coffee. “He’d enjoy that. Having Joe tucked away, hurting him and watching reports on a search. We’ve got some time. Some hours, maybe, maybe a day. Then that’s it. He won’t have enough control to stretch it longer.”

She looked at Roarke then. “I’m going to screw up your big family holiday.”

“Ours,” he corrected. “And there’s not a single person who’ll be here today who doesn’t value a life more than your presence at a turkey carving. Not a single person who doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”

“Okay. Okay.” The sheer casualness of the support lowered her guilt threshold. “I’m going to go into my office. I have to keep the doors shut. I don’t want some kid wandering through and getting traumatized for life by my murder board. I’ve got Peabody coming in within an hour, and McNab will be in as soon as he clears Asshole Joe’s office equipment. I told him to come straight to you.”

“I’ll be happy to have him.”

“Roarke, as soon as you have anything I can use on new tenants, anything on that damn code—”

“You’ll be the first to know it. I’m close,” he told her again. “If I’m reading this right it won’t take more than an hour or two. If that. Give me some space now, and some precious quiet.”

“Yeah.” She took the rest of her coffee with her.

She dug in for a while, trying to retrace Joe’s steps—hitting holiday disinterest from cab companies until fear of her wrath won out.

If he’d taken a cab, he hadn’t caught one in front of his workplace, or within a block either way.

She put the Transit Authorities on it, requesting they search their recordings on the chance he’d taken a subway. Spotting him could narrow the area.

Then she tagged Mira. Rather than her usual stylish do, Mira wore her hair in a short little ponytail. The style, or lack of it, made her look younger to Eve’s eye.

“I’m sorry. I know it’s early.”

“It’s fine. I’ve been up nearly an hour. I have a lot of cooking to do.”

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