J. Robb - Creation In Death

Eve glanced in the sideview, changed lanes. “He comes in, slides into the crowd, stays out of the main play, keeps to the back. Probably tips the waiter smack on the going percentage. Later, they don’t think, ‘Oh yeah, this guy stiffed me,’ or ‘This guy seriously flashed me.’ Just ordinary and average. Steady as she goes.”

“The confirmation’s good to have. Loni verifying he’d been in the club, made contact there with York. But it doesn’t tell us much.”

“It tells us he likes to alter his appearance. Slight alterations, nothing flashy. Dark hair, little mustache, gray wig. It tells us it’s unlikely he frequents or revisits the point of contact after he’s got the target. We know that he doesn’t lose control, that he can and does maintain whatever role he’s chosen to play during the stalking phase.”

She turned, headed west for a block, then veered south. “He danced with York, had his hands on her. They’re eye to eye, talking. It would be part of her job to talk to her partner. Everything we know about her says she was smart, self-aware, and knew how to deal with people. But she doesn’t get any signals, nothing that puts a hitch in her step, that this guy is trouble.

“Check the side view,” Eve told Peabody. “See that black sedan, six cars back?”

Peabody shifted, trained her gaze on the mirror. “Yeah. Barely. This snow is pretty thick. Why?”

“He’s been tailing us. Five, six, seven back, since we left the club. Not close enough for me to make out the plate. Since, as was recently pointed out, you’re younger than me, maybe your eyes are sharper.”

Peabody hunched her shoulders. “No. Can’t make it. He’s too close to the car in front of him. Maybe if he drops back a little, or comes around.”

“Let’s see what we can do about that.” Eve gauged an opening, started to switch lanes.

The blast of a horn, the wet squeal of brakes on sloppy pavement had her tapping her own. One lane over a limo fishtailed wildly in an attempt to miss hitting some idiot who dashed into the street.

She heard the thud, saw the boy fall and roll. There was a nasty crunch as the limo laid into the massive all-terrain in front of her.

“Son of a bitch.”

Even as she flipped on her On Duty light, she looked in the rearview again. The sedan was gone.

She slammed out of her vehicle in time to see the boy scramble up, start a limping run. And to hear the scream of: “Stop him! He’s got my bag!” over the urban symphony of horns and curses.

“Son of a bitch,” she said again. “Handle it, Peabody.” And set off in pursuit of the street thief.

He got his rhythm back quickly, proving-she supposed-someone else was younger than she. He dashed, darted, skidded, all but flew across the street, down the sidewalk.

He may have been younger, but her legs were longer, and she began to close the distance. He glanced back over his shoulder, his eyes showing both alarm and annoyance. As he ran he yanked the big brown bag out from under his bulky coat and began to swing it like a stylish pendulum.

He knocked over pedestrians like bowling pins so that Eve had to leap, dodge, swerve.

When he spun, swung the bag at her head, she ducked, snagged the strap, and simply yanked it to send him tumbling to the sidewalk.

Annoyed, she crouched. “You’re just stupid,” she muttered, and shoved him over on his back.

“Hey! Hey!” Some good Samaritan stopped. “What are you doing to that boy? What’s the matter with you?”

Eve planted her boot on the boy’s chest to keep him down, flipped out her badge. “You want to keep moving, pal?”

“Bitch,” the boy said as the Samaritan frowned at Eve’s badge. Then, like an angry terrier, bit her.

H uman bites are more dangerous than animal bites.” Peabody had the wheel now as Eve sat in the passenger seat dragging up her pants leg to see the damage. “And he broke the skin,” Peabody noted with a sympathetic wince. “Gee, he really clamped down on you.”

“Little bastard son of a bitch. Let’s see how he likes the assaulting-an-officer strike on top of the robberies. Biting Boy had a dozen wallets in his coat pockets.”

“You need to disinfect that.”

“Made me lose the sedan. Could’ve kicked him bloody for that.” Setting her teeth, Eve used the clean rag Peabody had unearthed from somewhere to staunch the wound. “Turned on the cross street as soon as there was a commotion. That’s what he did, that’s what he does. Avoids crowds and confrontations. Fucking fucker.”

“Bet that really hurts. You’re sure it was the guy?”

“I know a tail when I see one.”

“No question. I’m just wondering why he’d tail us. Trying to find out what we know, I guess. But what’s the point? All he can get is where we go-and where we’ve gone is pretty standard for an investigation.”

“He’s trying to get my rhythm, my pace, my moves. Trying to find a routine.”

“Why would…” It hit, and had Peabody jerking in her seat. “Holy shit. He’s stalking you.”

“Thinks I won’t make a tail?” She jerked her pants leg back down because looking at the teeth marks only made it hurt more. “Thinks he can figure me. Fat chance. He doesn’t know his target this time, he-ha-bit off more than he’s going to be able to chew.”

“How long have you known he was looking at you?”

“Know? Since about a half hour ago. Toyed with the possibility for a while, but having him tail us pretty much nailed it down.”

“You could have mentioned the idea to your partner.”

“Don’t start. It was one of God knows how many possibles. Now I’m giving it a high probable, and you’re the first to know. Black sedan, nothing flashy-which fits right in-round headlights, no hood ornamentation. It looked like a five-bar grill. We should be able to get a model from that.”

She all but sighed with relief when Peabody turned into the garage at Central. She wanted to ice down the damn leg. “New York plate was all I could make. Just a quick glimpse on the plate color. Too much distance, too much snow to get any number.”

“You need to take standard precautions with that injury.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“One of them should be an hour in the crib. You’re wiped out.”

“I hate the crib.” Eve climbed, somewhat achily, out of the car. “If I need to shut down for an hour, I’ll use the floor in my office. It works for me. Do me a favor,” she added as she hobbled to the elevator. “Set up a meet with Whitney and Mira, asap. I’m going to go steal some disinfectant and a bandage from the infirmary.”

“You don’t have to steal it. They’ll fix you up.”

“I don’t want them to fix me up,” Eve grumbled. “I hate them. I’ll just palm what I need and take care of it myself.”

E ve swung through the infirmary, committed-if you wanted to be absolutely technical-some basic shoplifting by pocketing what she needed without logging it in.

But if she logged it, they’d insist on seeing the wound. If she showed them the wound, they’d start badgering her to have it treated there. She just needed to clean it up, slap a bandage on it. And, okay, maybe take a blocker.

When she stepped into her office, Roarke was already there.

“Let’s see it.”

“See what?”

He merely lifted his eyebrows.

“Damn Peabody. She’s got a mouth on her.” Eve pulled the lifted items out of her coat pocket, tossed them on her desk. She hung her coat on the rack, then sat and propped her injured leg on the desk.

Roarke studied the wound when she tugged up her pants leg, and hissed a little. “Bit nasty, that.”

“I’ve had worse than a nip from some half-assed sissy street thief.”