Page 125 of Bonded in Death

Chapter Seventeen

Eve considered the rain, steady but thin, another kind of shield. It made bigger idiots out of drivers, but it encouraged the pedestrian population to either hurry on their way or stay indoors.

Feeney parked the van a half block from Chez Robert, and Eve huddled in front of the screens in the back and their various street views.

Watching, watching, she checked in with Lowenbaum.

“We’re in position,” he told her. “All clear.”

“Roger that.”

On-screen, she watched members of her team move toward their positions from various locations, scouting the block as they went.

“Give me a view of Chez Robert. I can’t see him going in there, but.”

As McNab added the angle, Feeney climbed in the back. “Got about fifteen minutes.” Pulling the bag of candied almonds out of his pocket, he offered them around. “If he wants one of those front-row seats?” Feeney nodded toward the sidewalk dining views. “Booking at thirteen hundred’s probable, and we’re sliding past that. Got a few empty tables.”

He shook his head, crunched an almond. “Why people want to eat outside with the traffic noise and rain clogging the air beats me.”

“Urban treat.” Callendar shrugged. “And see, that woman’s got a little dog on her lap. They won’t let you do that inside.”

“I won’t start on eating lunch with a dog on your lap.”

“That guy.” Eve tapped the screen. “Right height range, right weight range. Close in there.”

This time Roarke handled it.

“Nice suit, umbrella. Clean-shaven, appearance closer to sixty, but he’s done that before. Heading into the men’s shop. Baxter, check the man coming in your location.”

“Copy.”

“Got a couple, male, female, getting out of at cab at 186. Can’t get a good angle on them,” McNab told her. “Sharing a big umbrella.”

Eve shifted her focus as Baxter spoke in her ear.

“No go. Assistant manager back from lunch break.”

“Copy.”

She watched the couple go to the residential door, saw the woman take out a swipe, glance up at the man, laugh, and pat his arm as they walked in out of the rain.

Works alone, she thought. But.

She’d seen the lights on in the empty fifth-floor unit. As the privacy screen was off, she’d also seen the ladder, the figures in white coveralls.

Painters.

She kept her eye out for the lights to go on in 3-C.

“Another possible,” Callendar said. “Black suit, black umbrella. Got facial hair.”

“He likes disguises. Jenkinson, coming in at your three o’clock.”

“Got him. Going straight to a table, younger guy already there. Shaking hands.”

“Yeah, I see.” He works alone, she thought again. But, but, but. “Keep an eye on him.”

While Jenkinson kept an eye, and Eve scanned screens, Potter—under the name Jamison Brockstone—stepped out of the elevator on the third floor of 186. The real estate agent, one Brendita—“just call me Dita”—Havanara, continued her pitch.

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