In Death 25 - Creation in Death

Brett.”
    “It’s okay.” The bartender took her hand. “Take it easy.” He angled his head to look at the screen. Shook his head. “He didn’t come to the bar. I don’t remember him sitting at the bar.”
    “Where was he sitting, Loni?”
    “Okay. Okay.” She took long breaths as she swiveled around to study the club. “Second tier—I’m pretty sure—toward the back over there.”
    “I need to talk to whoever waits tables in that section. Can you pinpoint the night, Loni?”
    “I don’t know. It was a couple weeks ago. Maybe three? You know, I checked his coat once. I remember checking his coat, and that’s why I zeroed on him that night. I’d checked his coat before, and he’d been alone. So when I was working the floor, I spotted him and thought, ‘Oh yeah, that guy’s a solo.’ But he didn’t want to dance with me.”
    A single tear slid down her cheek. “He wanted Sari.”

15
    “UNOBTRUSIVE,” EVE SAID, PUSHING HER WAY through traffic as a thick, heavy snow began to fall. “Limits contact with anyone other than the target.”
    “None of the waitstaff could make him, none of the valets. Could live or work within walking distance of the club,” Peabody ventured.
    “Yeah, or he parks elsewhere on his own. Or he’s using public transportation for this part of his game. What cabbie’s going to remember picking up or dropping off a fare days later, or in this case weeks? We’re spitting into the wind there. Loni only remembered him because he’d spanked her vanity. Otherwise he’d have just been another forgotten face. He’d have been smarter to dance with her. She wouldn’t have remembered him for five minutes after.”
    Eve glanced in the sideview, changed lanes. “He comes in, slides into the crowd, stays out of the main play, keeps to the back. Probably tips the waiter smack on the going percentage. Later, they don’t think, ‘Oh yeah, this guy stiffed me,’ or ‘This guy seriously flashed me.’ Just ordinary and average. Steady as she goes.”
    “The confirmation’s good to have. Loni verifying he’d been in the club, made contact there with York. But it doesn’t tell us much.”
    “It tells us he likes to alter his appearance. Slight alterations, nothing flashy. Dark hair, little mustache, gray wig. It tells us it’s unlikely he frequents or revisits the point of contact after he’s got the target. We know that he doesn’t lose control, that he can and does maintain whatever role he’s chosen to play during the stalking phase.”
    She turned, headed west for a block, then veered south. “He danced with York, had his hands on her. They’re eye to eye, talking. It would be part of her job to talk to her partner. Everything we know about her says she was smart, self-aware, and knew how to deal with people. But she doesn’t get any signals, nothing that puts a hitch in her step, that this guy is trouble.
    “Check the side view,” Eve told Peabody. “See that black sedan, six cars back?”
    Peabody shifted, trained her gaze on the mirror. “Yeah. Barely. This snow is pretty thick. Why?”
    “He’s been tailing us. Five, six, seven back, since we left the club. Not close enough for me to make out the plate. Since, as was recently pointed out, you’re younger than me, maybe your eyes are sharper.”
    Peabody hunched her shoulders. “No. Can’t make it. He’s too close to the car in front of him. Maybe if he drops back a little, or comes around.”
    “Let’s see what we can do about that.” Eve gauged an opening, started to switch lanes.
    The blast of a horn, the wet squeal of brakes on sloppy pavement had her tapping her own. One lane over a limo fishtailed wildly in an attempt to miss hitting some idiot who dashed into the street.
    She heard the thud, saw the boy fall and roll. There was a nasty crunch as the limo laid into the massive all-terrain in front of her.
    “Son of a bitch.”
    Even as she flipped on her On Duty light, she looked in the rearview again. The sedan was gone.
    She slammed out of her vehicle in time to see the boy scramble up, start a limping run. And to hear the scream of: “Stop him! He’s got my bag!” over the urban symphony of horns and curses.
    “Son of a bitch,” she said again. “Handle it, Peabody.” And set off in pursuit of the street thief.
    He got his rhythm back quickly, proving—she supposed—someone else was younger than she. He dashed, darted, skidded, all but flew across the street, down the