Creation In Death

“And you got lucky,” Callendar mumbled.

“And I’m so good,” McNab said smoothly, “that I hit on a guest registered three weeks before the vic was snatched, with a four-day stay. Name of Cicero Edwards. Resort requires an address, to which Edwards listed one in London. I ran the name with said address and came up with zip. No Edwards, Cicero, at that address at that time. And better, the address was bogus. It’s the address for-”

“An opera house,” Eve said and had McNab’s pretty face moving into a pout.

“Wind, sails, sucked out,” he commented. “The Royal Opera House, to be exact. Leading your crack e-team to deduce this was our guy, and that our guy has a thing for fat women singing in really high voices.”

“I have information that may add further weight to that.” She encapsulated Nadine’s information. “Good work.” She nodded at McNab and Callendar. “Find more. Roarke, see if you can dig up any buildings that were used as opera houses or theaters that held operas during the Urbans. And-”

“He’ll have season tickets,” Roarke said. “If he’s a serious buff, and is able to afford the luxury, he’d indulge it. Box seats, most likely. Here at the Met, very likely at the Royal and other opera houses of repute.”

“We can work that,” she replied. “Dig, cross-check. He likes to vary his name. Punch on any variation of Edward.” She glanced at her wrist unit, cursed. “I’m late for the damn media. Get started.”

She turned, studied the name she’d added to the white board. Ariel Greenfeld.

“Let’s find her,” she said, and went out.

She got through the media without actually grinding her teeth down to nubs. She considered that progress. Whitney was waiting for her outside the briefing room.

“I’d hoped to make it to your morning briefing,” he told her. “I was detained.”

“We do have some new leads since my report. Sir, I’d like to check on Detective Yancy’s progress with the witness if I could update you on the way.”

He nodded, fell into step beside her.

“An opera lover,” he said when she’d brought him up to speed. “My wife enjoys the opera.”

“Yes, sir.”

He smiled a little. “I actually enjoy some opera myself. He may have gotten too clever with his fake addresses, using opera houses.”

“Houses may be one of the keys, Commander. I don’t know much about opera, but I take it they deal with death a lot of the time. The psychic in Romania talked about his house of death. Psychics are often cryptic or their visions symbolic.”

“And we should consider he might have, or have had, some more direct co

“It’s a possibility.”

“Phantom of the Opera. A story about a disfigured man who haunts an opera house, and kills,” Whitney explained. “His killing place may be a former opera house or theater.”

“We’re pursuing that. There are other areas we may pursue. I’d like to discuss them with you and Mira at some point, if those areas seem relevant.”

“We’ll work around you.”

He went with her to Yancy’s division. Eve wondered if he registered the fact that wherever he passed, cops came to attention…or if it was something he no longer noticed.

Eve saw first that Yancy was alone at his workstation, and second that his eyes were closed, and he was wearing a headset. Though she’d have preferred the commander had been elsewhere when she was forced to berate a detective, it didn’t stop her from giving Yancy’s desk chair a good, solid kick.

He jerked up. “Hey, watch where you’re-Lieutenant.” A

He came out of the chair.

“Where the hell is my witness?” Eve demanded. “And just how often do you take a little nap on the department’s time?”

“I wasn’t napping. Sir. It’s a ten-minute meditation program,” he explained as he pulled off the headset. “Trina needed a break, so I suggested she go down to the Eatery or take a short walk around. At this point in the work, it’s easy to stop guiding and start directing. Meditating for a few minutes clears my head.”

“Your methods generally produce results,” Whitney commented. “But in this case, ten minutes is an indulgence we can’t afford.”

“Understood, sir, but, respectfully, I know when a wit needs a breather. She’s good.” Yancy glanced at Dallas. “She’s really good. She knows faces because it’s her business to evaluate them. She’s already given me more than most wits manage, and in my opinion, after this break she’s going to nail it solid. Take a look.”

He’d used both a sketch pad and the computer. Eve stepped around to get a closer look at both. “That’s good,” she agreed.

“It’ll be better. She keeps changing the eyes and the mouth, and that’s because she’s second-and third-guessing. She can’t pull out the eye color, but the shape? The shape of the eyes, the face, even the way the ears lie, she doesn’t deviate.”

The face was rounded, the ears lying neatly, and on the small side. The eyes were slightly hooded and held a pleasant expression. The mouth, a little thin on top, was curved in a hint of a smile. Short-necked, Eve noted, so that the head sat low on the shoulders.

All in all, it struck her as a bland, nondescript kind of face. The sort that would be easily overlooked. “Nothing stands out about him,” she commented. “Except his absolute ordinariness.”

“Exactly. And that makes it harder for the wit. Harder to remember details about somebody who doesn’t really have anything about him that catches the eye. She was more into how he dressed, how he spoke, how he smelled, that sort of thing. They made the impression. Took her a while to start building the face beyond that. But she’s good.”

“So are you,” Eve complimented. “Give me a copy of this for now. Get me the finished when you have it.”

“Some of these details are going to change.” Still, Yancy ordered a print. “I think the nose is going to be shorter, and-” He held up a hand as if signaling himself to stop. “And that’s why we needed a break from each other. I’m projecting.”

“This gives us a base. When you’re done with Trina, I’d like you to arrange for her to be taken back to my residence. She’s expected.”

“Will do.”

“Nice work, Detective.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

As they left, Whitney glanced at Eve. “Check with him in an hour. If there isn’t any change, we’ll release this image. We need it made public as soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Contact me when you want to meet with me and Dr. Mira,” he added, then peeled off to go his own way.

E ve didn’t care how cold it was, it was good to be back on the street. She’d had enough, for the time being, of desk work and comp work and briefings. It was true enough she needed some thinking time, just her and her murder board, but right now, she needed to move.

“It’s hard to believe we’ve only been on this since Friday night.” Peabody hunched her shoulders as they walked to BodyWorks. “It feels like we’ve been working this one for a month.”

“Time’s relative.” Ariel Greenfeld, Eve thought, missing for approximately eighteen hours.

“McNab humped on this until nearly three this morning. I fizzled just past midnight, but he was revved. Something about e-juice, I guess. Of course, when he’s really humping the comp, he doesn’t have any left to, you know, hump yours truly. This is the longest we’ve gone since cohabbing not using the bed-or some other surface-for recreational purposes.”

“One day,” Eve said as she cast her eyes to heaven, “one fine day you’ll be able to go a full week without inserting an image of you and McNab having sex into my head.”

“Well, see, that’s what I’m worried about.” They passed into the lobby of the center, flashed badges on the way to the elevator. “You think maybe the bloom’s wearing off? That we’re losing the spark? It’s actually been since Wednesday night that we-”