In Death 26 - Strangers in Death

over his shirt pocket, shrugged. “Get plenty of action, mostly between midnight and six. Me, I work the days. I got seniority.”
    “It’s days I’m interested in,” Eve reminded him. “A specific day a couple of months ago.”
    “We got security cams covering all the lots, the grounds, the vending. Can’t use ’em in the johns, so that’s where we get the most action.” He pulled at his nose, swiveled on his high-backed stool. “But we roll ’em over every seventy-two hours. We got nothing goes back two months.”
    “Do you go back two months, Vince?”
    “Sure. I’ve been here twelve years come June.”
    “Two women in a high-end black car, with one of them puking out the passenger door.”
    He shot her a quick and sour grin. “Jesus, New York, you know how many people we got puking in the lots, in the johns? Every-damn-where?”
    “I bet you don’t have that many booting it between ten and eleven on a weekday, non-holiday morning.” She pulled out a photo. “This would be the puker.”
    He took the photo, scratched his ass, scratched his head. “She don’t ring for me. Looks like mostly anyone.”
    “What about this one?”
    There was more scratching as Vince studied Ava’s photo. “Looks like somebody. This one’s driving, right? Nice, black Mercedes—new model, two-door sedan.”
    “You remember that?”
    “Yeah, now that I’m thinking about it. Blondie here didn’t look like the road-trip sort, and they never got out to use the john. Women hardly ever pass up a trip to the john, they pull into a rest area. The other one tosses it out the door, and I think: ‘There goes breakfast.’ I remember ’cause I expected they’d go into the john, clean up the sick one. But the blonde, she just drives around to the truck lot, parks again. I let maintenance know they had a cleanup, got me some coffee. Can’t say I noticed how long they sat there or when they left.”
     
    B ack in the car, Roarke stretched his legs. “Are you going to pass up a trip to the john?”
    “Ha-ha. I can put her here with Suzanne. Right here in the Alexander Hamilton rest area off the Turnpike. Who the hell was Alexander Hamilton, and why is there a rest area off the Turnpike named after him?”
    “Ah…”
    “Never mind. There’s a new model Mercedes sedan, black, registered to Ava Anders. This little chat with Vince confirms the day, the time—and I’ll back that up because I’ll betcha that big, black Mercedes has a pass scanner for the toll. Can’t confirm what was said, but it puts Ava with Suzanne here. How’s she going to explain that one?”
    “She’ll have something. Hamilton was one of America’s Founding Fathers, and its first Secretary of the Treasury.”
    “Who? Huh?”
    “You asked,” Roarke said, pocketing his PPC again. “Where to now?”
    Eve frowned at him a moment. “Is that what you’re doing, playing with that thing all the time? Looking up trivia?”
    “Among other things. Something else you’d like to know?”
    “Whole bunches of things. Right now, we’re going to go to the market to find out a few.” She answered her dash ’link. “Dallas.”
    “We got it. Bag was in the closet,” Peabody said, “as advertised. A disposable ’link, several security discs, and a very rocking bypass remote—along with a pair of light blue men’s pajamas, the pressure syringes, and the meds.”
    “Get them in, log them. I want chain of evidence pristine. Have Feeney and McNab start on the contents. I’m in the field, got a couple more stops to make.”
    “It’s falling apart on her,” Roarke commented.
    “She’s going to hire a big, fat, sneaky lawyer. A fucking fleet of big, fat, sneaky lawyers. The type who get shit suppressed, tossed out, who pump in reasonable doubt. I don’t have enough. I can put her with Suzanne in Jersey a few days after Custer’s murder. Proves nothing. What Peabody just picked up only proves Suzanne was in the Anderses’ house, and pretty much sews up she killed him. We’ve got her confession already. She’s locked. Your acquaintance can state that the device was taken to the Anders residence. He can’t put it in Ava’s hands. I’ve got her lies, her association with an LC, I’ve got her father-in-law’s death, which I wheedled the local cops into opening again. Disposable ’link. Batt’s going to be dead, and when the battery dies on those, it wipes the transmissions. I need more.”
     
    T he chubby and cheerful Mr. Isaacs