Chapter Three

When Eve judged she'd gotten all she'd get from the three women, she let them go.

"Go home, hit the rack. We'll meet up at the vic's apartment at oh-eight hundred. See if Feeney can spare McNab to check out the e's."

"Can do." Peabody rubbed her tired eyes. "Are you heading out, too?"

"I want a word with the sweepers and Crack, then yeah."

As they stepped back into the club area, Eve looked around. The women, ringed around Shauna like a security team, filed out. "Nothing more we can do here tonight."

After consulting with the sweepers, she walked to the rear door, stepped out.

She scanned the short alley, where two white-suited sweepers filtered through the contents of the recycling bin.

So easy, Eve thought.

Just somebody turning into the alley on a hot, damp summer night, carrying a black case. Had she already given them the swipe?

Probably, she thought. Most likely, since she'd had company on that bathroom trip roughly an hour and fifteen minutes before TOD.

But why? If she'd wanted someone to bring it in that way, why not just go to the back door at some point, take the case? Thanks, pal.

Can't say, she concluded. But if that had been the plan, it hadn't worked.

Either way, she'd given that case and access to the privacy room to someone she knew. Trusted.

Either way, her killer had been in the room. Maybe they'd convinced her to let them go in with her. Or they'd waited for her in the room.

Eve stepped back in.

"Waiting inside. She couldn't say when, for sure, she'd be able to slip away unnoticed—as proven by Decker on the john trip. Can't ask somebody to wait in an alley indefinitely."

She walked down to the privacy room. Dim lights, soundproofing. Inside within seconds.

Still, risky.

She headed back to the club area, where only Crack and Roarke remained. They sat at the bar, and from the looks of it, had switched to water.

"The sweepers are nearly done," she told Crack. "Go home. They'll secure the place, seal it."

"How long you shutting me down? Not giving you shit about it," he added. "Just need to know."

"Keep it closed tomorrow. Give me another day on just the privacy room. If I hit on something that says longer, I'll let you know. But I don't see it."

"You gonna loop me in?"

"No."

When his eyes narrowed, she narrowed her own.

"Can't and won't. If we have questions you might be able to answer, we'll ask them. If we have information I think you can expand on, I'll ask. Otherwise, I can't and won't."

He stared down at his water, then looked at Roarke. "Hard-ass skinny white girl you hooked with."

"She is. And that's one of the reasons she'll find who killed your friend, and who used your place to do it."

"Guess I hear that." He rose. "You'll work that security bullshit up for me?"

"I will, yes."

"Well, fuck it. I guess I'm going home."

After watching him walk out, she turned to Roarke. "Well, fuck it. I guess we're going home, too."

He rose, took her hand. "You can tell me what you think on the way."

"Some I think, some I know," she said as they went out where the shallow puddles had dried. And the air felt as if it had absorbed every drop of wet. "I know the killer was in the room. I think already in it when she went in. I know the killer brought in the case. I think she found a way to slip them the swipe so they could. Since she picked it up about noon, that leaves plenty of time for the handoff. That says she knew her killer, and trusted them enough with her big secret surprise. Had to, as the case didn't have a lock."

She got in the car, stretched out her legs.

"I know the killer came prepared to kill, and I think they did it quickly from behind. Plus they weren't smart enough to take the case out with them and secure the door. Why leave the case, when that gives us something to work with? Why not secure the door so it takes longer to locate the body?"

"Panic?" Roarke suggested.

"That's my initial thinking, and if so, it's most likely a first kill. As far as we know—so that's not in the I Know column—none of her group arrived at the D McNab's airboots with multicolored swirls pranced. His shirt somehow matched the boots, and his baggies shined neon blue.

At least Peabody wore sensible khakis and a blue—not neon—top under a tan blazer.

They held hands, but wisely uncoupled before they reached her.

"Warrant came through." She pointed down the block, then continued to walk. "McNab, I spotted door cams, so start with the security feed. Look for the black case. I don't expect to get that lucky, but let's cross it off. Also anyone entering from TOD to an hour after we released the party group. Then we'll want a search through any house e's for any reference to this surprise trip."

"All over it and back again."

"Anything hinky with the e's, we take them in. We're authorized."

She paused in front of the building for a longer look.

An old, faded brick, pre-Urbans, that had held its own during that violent era. No graffiti, sensible riot bars on the first-floor windows. Reasonable security. A four-decker, no retail space. Probably a walk-up, she thought, grandfathered in before mandatory elevators.

"They could both probably walk to work from here," Peabody commented. "I checked, and Albright usually set up about six blocks from here, and her studio space is just under four. Fancy Feet is one crosstown block and one short block north. Rent takes a bite, but with two incomes, manageable. Just."

"They'd save on transpo."

"Yeah, they moved in here together just about ten months ago. Both had studio apartments previously. Combining those rents, this place isn't much more. It's billed as a two-bedroom, but the second's smaller than your closet. I checked."

"Top floor, southwest corner. I checked," Eve said. "Let's go have a look." She walked up, mastered in.

The entrance area was smaller than her pre-Roarke closet, and barely fit the three of them.

Not altogether a walk-up, she realized, as it had one elevator. One dubious elevator.

She wouldn't have used it in any case.

Stairs, barely wide enough for two across, had a sturdy rail that looked fairly new.

No soundproofing, as she could hear voices—on-screens, in actuality, and the requisite crying baby—from behind doors painted what she thought of as apartment green.

It looked and smelled reasonably clean. No trash on the cheap laminate floors, no graffiti on the builder's-beige walls.

"Find the security hub or building super, McNab."

"Both basement level." He grinned. "I checked."

"Good to start off the day efficient. Let's move."