In Death 28 - Promises in Death

Ricker offered him a chance to turn on his good pal Alex. I bet he wept tears of fucking joy.
    “I bet there were women, too, women he wanted that never spared him a second glance because Alex got there first. I bet Coltraine was one of them. She probably knew it, too. Sure, she’s smart, she’s self-aware. She’d know he had a thing for her. Probably felt sorry for him. He’d have to hate her for that. Helping kill her would’ve been like a bonus.”
    She turned to pace again, and saw Morris watching her. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
    “Don’t be.” He came to her with coffee, held out the mug he’d poured for her. “I’ll get your murder board for you if you tell me where it is. I see her as she was,” he added.
    “The panels over there open to a storage closet. Any time you need a break . . .”
    “Don’t worry about me. It’s about her.”
    “No private air transpo out of the city fitting the time frame,” Baxter announced. “Not with anyone using his ID, or anyone fitting his description. I’ll widen the circle.”
    “Do that.” She went back to her desk to work out a time line, and looked up and over when Roarke came in.
    “Groveling can wait,” he said before she could speak. “And I have specifics in mind there. But for now, what is it?”
    “I’ve got Feeney and McNab on the way. I need a detailed and deep search on Sandy’s finances. I’ve got the hideaway accounts from Alex. The ones he knows of. I figure there’s at least one more. Sandy’s gone rabbit.”
    “And any self-respecting rabbit needs funds. All right, I’ll see what I can find. But you’ll be losing your e-team at four.”
    “But—”
    “We’ll be leaving, Lieutenant, as arranged, for Vegas. Charles’s bachelor party.”
    “You guys are going to Vegas?” Baxter piped up, looking both sad and hopeful. “I know Charles.”
    Roarke smiled at him. “Would you like to go, Detective?”
    Eve literally waved her hands in the air. “Hey, hey!”
    “I’m already there. Can I bring my boy?”
    “The more the merrier.” Roarke poked a finger at Eve while she sputtered. “You’ll be busy yourself. And what we can’t find in the next few hours isn’t to be found. But, in that unlikely event, I’ll program an autosearch.”
    “I don’t see why we couldn’t just postpone the whole thing until—”
    “Of course you don’t. But you’re out-voted.”
    “Life has to be.” Morris stepped back from the board he’d set in the center of the room. “Or there’s no point.”
    “Okay, wait. Wait.” She had to think. “Until four. But if we pinpoint Sandy’s location, or something equally relevant at three-fifty-freaking-nine—”
    “We’ll cross that bridge,” Roarke finished. “Give me what you have.” He took the disc she gave him. “Feeney and McNab? We’ll use the computer lab then. Send them along when they get here.”
    As impatience rubbed against guilt, Eve strode after him. “Listen, did I screw anything up—any important anything—by interrupting?”
    “Oh, what’s a few million lost now and then in the grand scheme? I’ll try to win it back in Vegas.”
    “Oh God. Oh my God.”
    Laughing, he caught her horrified face in his hands. “I’m having you on, though I shouldn’t let you off that hook so easily. It’s fine. But annoying, so you’ll be scheduling in that groveling. Now go away. I have other things to see to, besides your e-work, before I leave.”
    Sure. Fine. She went back to work.
    “Nothing,” Baxter told her. “I checked on the All-Points. We got a couple of hits, but neither of them turned out to be Sandy. Morris did a recheck on his accounts and cards.”
    “Still no activity. I can help Baxter with the search, the transportation.”
    She nodded, went back to her time line. When she completed it, as she posted it on her board, her e-team walked in.
    She stared at Feeney. “What are you wearing? Not you,” she said to McNab. “I never expect otherwise from you.”
    “This is my lucky shirt.” Feeney jutted out his chin.
    The lucky shirt was sea-sick green, and covered with maniacally grinning pink flamingos. On his explosion of hair he wore a black ball cap that had another flamingo leering from the bill.
    “Jesus, Feeney, no man gets lucky dressed like that.”
    “Not that kind of lucky.” He shot Baxter a steely glare when the detective hooted. “I got a wife, don’t I? This shirt has a history. So far, it’s won me eight hundred