Page 122 of Bonded in Death

Eve secured the apartment, and took the stairs up.

On five, she repeated the routine. Here the walls needed that fresh paint, and she spotted a number of holes where someone had hung art. Clean enough, she judged, but not pristine.

Unlike on three, these windows held a thin film of dust inside and some street grime outside.

Still, she thought, another prime view of Chez Robert.

And more recently vacated, she concluded, than 3-C.

Peabody confirmed when she joined Eve.

“Tenants moved out of this one just two days ago. They bought a house. Painters are coming in today, she hopes. It’s not publicly advertised yet, and won’t be until they paint, deep clean, and inspect. Nothing on the security feed, Dallas. Couple of lone males coming in or going out, but none in the right age frame. And she identified one as a tenant, the other as a frequent visitor. She sure knows her building.”

“All right. Let’s move on. Nadine sent some data,” Eve added as they started out. “Most just confirms what we already know about him. She also dug up a female officer on the job with him back then. No friends, a loner who referred to women officers as Cunt Coppers.”

Peabody hissed out a breath. “I really, seriously don’t like this asshole.”

“You’re not alone there. It adds more weight to the lone wolf, no friends, associates, long-term accomplices. He’s on his own, and that’s how he likes it.”

Building by building, floor by floor, they worked the block.

“None of the newer tenants fit,” Peabody said. “No sign on security feeds of him entering buildings with vacancies. In any case, it’s easier—and a hell of a lot cheaper—to get a table right out here.”

On the way back, Peabody stopped at the first restaurant. “Book a table for like one, maybe twelve-thirty, but probably one, take your seat. Order yourself a nice Cobb salad, maybe a glass of wine. Front-row seat. And in the inevitable confusion after, you walk away.”

“Easier. Simpler. And that’s why it doesn’t slide in smooth for me. Let’s go across the street, find out who booked the bomb booth.”

Though the restaurant wasn’t yet open, Eve’s badge got them in. The manager, a fussy little man with jet-black hair and a blond goatee, blended concerned with annoyed.

“We open at noon, and we’re eighty-eight percent booked through the lunch shift. We’ve barely begun our prep.”

“Then the quicker you help us out, the quicker you can get back to it. We need to know who booked that back corner booth yesterday.”

He sighed, a huge huff from the gut. “At what time?”

“At any time.”

He mumbled, grumbled, fussed with his facial hair, and finally brought up the previous day’s bookings on the station screen.

“Noon for Ms. Johnstone-Trevor and party. As she’s a frequent guestand never lingers over ninety minutes, we took a two-thirty booking. Mr. Pouncy, party of three.”

“Is the server here?”

“Of course! We’re in lunch prep.”

“Get her.”

“Officer—”

“Lieutenant.”

“Whatever. This is adversely affecting our schedule, and that can affect our service. Poor reviews can lower our rating and damage our reputation.”

“Get her fast.”

“Melinda!” He lifted his hands, fingers facing backwards. Wiggled them.

The server—early twenties, curvy, big smile, auburn hair back in a smooth tail—hurried right over.

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