In Death 25 - Creation in Death

moments later, taking charge of the room, putting all that behind her.
    It was hardly a wonder that it had been her, essentially from the first minute he’d seen her. That it would be her until his last breath. And very likely well beyond that.
    She hadn’t worn her jacket for the briefing, he noted. She looked lean and not a little dangerous with her weapon strapped over her sweater. He’d seen her drape the diamond he’d once given her over her neck before she’d put on the sweater that morning.
    The priceless Giant’s Tear and the police-issue. That combination, he thought, said something about their merging lives.
    As he listened to her brisk update, he toyed with the gray button—her button—he always carried in his pocket.
    “I expect to have a face within the next couple of hours,” she continued. “Until that time, these are the lines we pursue. Urban Wars connection. Captain Feeney?”
    “Slow going there,” he said, “due to the lack of records. The Home Force did have documented billets and clinics in the city, and I’m working with those. But there were any number of unofficial locations used, and used temporarily. More that were destroyed or subsequently razed. I’ve interviewed and am set to interview individuals who were involved militarily, paramilitarily, or as civilians. I’m going to focus on body disposal.”
    “Do you need more men?”
    “I’ve got a couple I can put on it.”
    “Do that. Knocking on doors. Newkirk, you and your team will recanvass this sector.” She turned, aiming her laser pointer to highlight a five-block area around the bakery where Ariel Greenfeld worked. “Every apartment, every business, every street LC, sidewalk sleeper, and panhandler. Somebody saw Greenfeld Sunday afternoon. Make them remember. Baxter, you and Trueheart take this sector around Greenfeld’s residence. He watched her. From the street, from another building, from a vehicle. In order to familiarize himself with her routine, he staked her out more than once. Jenkinson and Powell, recanvass the area of York’s and Rossi’s residences. Peabody and I will take the gym and the club.”
    She paused, and Roarke could see her going through her mental checklist. “The real estate angle. Roarke.”
    “There are a significant number of private residences,” he began, “and businesses with residences on site that have been owned and operated by the same individual or individuals for the time frame. Even reducing this search area to below Fiftieth in Manhattan, the number is considerable. I believe, if I cross with Feeney, do a search for private buildings that were in existence during the Urbans, whether as residences or otherwise, we’ll cut that down.”
    “Good.” She thought a moment. “That’s good. Do that. Connecting cases. McNab.”
    “It’s been like trying to pick the right flea off a gorilla.”
    “My line,” Callendar muttered beside him, and he grinned.
    “Her line, but I think we may have a good possible. First vic in Florida, housekeeper at a swank resort, last seen after leaving the Sunshine Casino at approximately oh-one-hundred. She habitually spent a few hours on her night off playing the poker slots. Going on the theory that her killer had made earlier contact, may have been known by her, I did a run on the resort’s register for the thirty days prior to her death. Investigators at that time took a pass through it after the second body was discovered, but as it appeared the vic had been grabbed outside the casino, focused their efforts there. But a copy of the register was in the case file. Tits here and I went though it.”
    “And you got lucky,” Callendar mumbled.
    “And I’m so good,” McNab said smoothly, “that I hit on a guest registered three weeks before the vic was snatched, with a four-day stay. Name of Cicero Edwards. Resort requires an address, to which Edwards listed one in London. I ran the name with said address and came up with zip. No Edwards, Cicero, at that address at that time. And better, the address was bogus. It’s the address for—”
    “An opera house,” Eve said and had McNab’s pretty face moving into a pout.
    “Wind, sails, sucked out,” he commented. “The Royal Opera House, to be exact. Leading your crack e-team to deduce this was our guy, and that our guy has a thing for fat women singing in really high voices.”
    “I have information that may add further weight to that.” She encapsulated Nadine’s