Connections in Death (In Death, #48)- J. D. Robb Page 0,61
Out.”
Eve plugged in the sleazy lawyer’s address, pulled out. And tried Roarke on the in-dash.
“Lieutenant. I’m just on my way home, and assume you’re not.”
“I’m not. We ID’d one of the killers.”
“Quick work.”
“Depends,” she decided, and brought him up to date.
“That’s quite a bit packed into your day,” he commented. “And more to come?”
“Yeah. I could’ve done without the stinky memory of trapped boy-farts at the end, but that’s the job.”
“I’m doing my best to be grateful you’ve shared that particular experience with me.”
“The telling doesn’t come close to the experiencing, trust me. So we’ve got a BOLO out on Aimes, and I’m going to tug another line. How about taking a detour, adding a tug of your own?”
He smiled. “Where?”
“I’m going to pay a visit to Samuel Cohen, Jones’s business partner in real estate.”
“Ah yes, the ambitious, enterprising street gangster. Makes me nostalgic.”
“I bet. Which is why I thought you’d be handy when I talk to the partner.”
She swung well away from a lumbering maxibus, cut nimbly back in front of it to take the next turn.
“The disbarred lawyer, remember? Who lives with a stripper about half his age.”
“That may make up for the disbarred.”
“Yeah, most people with dicks would think that.”
“Darling, that’s sexist. I’m sure there are some lovely lesbians who’d think the same.”
“Okay, got me there. Hold on.”
Punching it a little, Eve threaded the needle between a double-parked cargo van and a crew jackhammering a section of the cross street. And nipped through the intersection seconds before pedestrians surged across.
“Anyway—”
“Are those shouted expletives aimed at you?”
“Maybe. The stripper’s name’s on the papers, too. They’ve got a place on the Lower East Side.”
“Give me the address, I’ll meet you.”
She did, added, “Make sure you’re wearing your intimidating rich bastard suit.”
“I have no other kind. I’ll see you shortly.”
She pushed through traffic along with what seemed like half the city of New York, and thought of Barry Aimes’s mother’s long commute. Air tram or commuter bus, Eve figured, and likely close to an hour both ways unless she got lucky.
And while Mom stood on her feet most of the day dealing with customers, then dragging herself home after a day at the mall—which right there should qualify for combat pay—her son was fat-assing and farting in his filthy room smoking Zoner, or out killing people.
How would she react, what would she think when she got home and found the cops at the door?
Resigned, defensive, weepy?
Could be any of those, Eve thought, but odds are shocked wouldn’t make the list.
What bad boy Aimes’s hardworking mother ought to do is find herself a little apartment near the mall. Though Eve admitted she’d rather stun herself multiple times than nestle into the ’burbs. But once he was in a cage—and he damn well would be unless he ended up on Morris’s slab—it didn’t make any sense to add a couple hours onto a workday so you could afford a two-bedroom in Manhattan to accommodate your lazy-ass son who disrespected you enough to put a lock and a sign on the bedroom door you paid for.
She put it aside—not her problem—and began the hunt for parking. When she spied a sedan nosing out from the curb, she hit vertical, zipped forward and hovered while the overly cautious driver inched, waited, inched, waited.
The second his rear bumper cleared, she punched down, destroying the hopes of a compact all-terrain that tried to beat her claim.
Satisfying, Eve thought, then stepped out on the busy crosstown street. Pedestrians streamed by as she stepped onto the sidewalk. In light jackets, many in shirtsleeves, they took advantage of the evening balm. She smelled the gyros and skewered meats from a Greek place with its door opened and a pair of tables, already occupied, flanking the door.
A far cry from the handful of blocks that hosted Banger HQ.
As she began to walk, traffic hitched and honked, hampered by a delivery truck hogging the bulk of the street. A couple of women hurried by, chattering about somebody named Julio who thought he was God’s gift as they turned into an after-work watering hole.
Some kid with a demon grin zoomed by on an airboard. The odds of a pack of roaming street rats knocking him off and stealing it in this neighborhood ranked low.
She paused outside Cohen’s building. A nice four-stack—two up, two down, with the faded red bricks, the doors all snowy white. Decent security on all four units to her eye, and with privacy screens engaged on all the windows.