Page 88 of Devoted in Death

“They’d come up here sometimes,” Eve muttered. “If you made a trip to New York, you’d do the tourist thing, wouldn’t you? You want the Midtown shops, the skating at Rockefeller, the park. You’d want to see the Empire State, you’d want to join the party at Times Square.”

She shifted to him. “You don’t come all this way without the party, do you? You don’t hole up inside the whole time, no matter how much fun you’re having. You can do that anywhere.”

“You’ve a point. What does it tell you?”

“Just more. They’re a couple. Lovers. Mira profiles them as in love—in their sick, fucked-up way. A romantic dinner somewhere, maybe? One of the hot spots. That means the right clothes, and that means shopping. That takes money, unless they use a vic’s card, and we’d be on them like rats on cheese. Souvenirs. You gotta have souvenirs.”

She rolled it over, turned it side-to-side as Roarke drove them home again.

Inside, they headed straight to her office. She smelled bacon before they made the last turn.

She might have snarled at that, but she also smelled coffee.

She walked in as Peabody handed a plate from the buffet table—already set up and loaded—to Banner.

“Hey, there you are. We figured we’d do the spread before you—you’ve been out already?”

Eve shrugged out of her coat, tossed it aside. “We’ve got another.”

“Another? Campbell—”

“Undetermined. Mulligan, Reed Aaron, age twenty-one, snatched at midnight and change last night, heading south on Seventh between Waverly and Charles.”

“You’ve got a wit?” McNab asked.

“We’ve got a ’link trans, and potentially a cam feed. Roarke, put this on screen while I see if Traffic’s come through.”

“Mulligan,” Roarke repeated, using the auxiliary to put the data on screen, “Reed Aaron, reported missing by his mother.”

While Roarke briefed them, Eve finally connected with someone from Traffic who knew an ass from an elbow—at least in her opinion.

“Feed’s coming through. I’m throwing it up. Crap,” she said seconds later when the flickering, muddy image came on. “Can you clean this up?” she demanded of McNab.

“Some, sure. Can I?”

She frowned, realized he wanted her desk, pushed up and away.

“Bad angle, too,” she muttered. “That’s just stupid. We’re not going to get a tag, angle’s too high. But that’s going to be enough for somebody to nail down make and model. Where are they? Where—there—somebody’s getting out on the curbside. Is that somebody getting out? McNab!”

“Working on it. I can take it into the lab here or at Central, clean it up better and faster.”

“Just give me something here.”

Roarke strolled over, leaned over McNab’s shoulder. The two of them began muttering in geek.

“Can’t see the street-side door. Cam’s just shit, but that’s the woman. That’s the female. Short skirt, short jacket.”

“Can’t get a good read on her.” Banner strained as Eve did. “Height, maybe. Figuring the height of the van—that’s a van... maybe five-six? Hair’s covered, face turned away, gloves. Can’t see enough of her.”

“Is that a corner of the license plate? I think it is,” Peabody gestured. “And that’s some sort of sticker in the back window. That triangle.”

“That’s better, a little better,” Eve said as the image cleared a bit more. “Yeah, that’s the woman. You can tell by the way she moves she’s hunting, and she’s wearing the slut stockings.”

“Fishnets,” Peabody supplied.

“Looking around, opening the back. Can you zoom in on the back, on the interior while she’s got the back open?”

The image jerked, flickered again, madly for a moment, then steadied.