by Robb, J. D.
At his station, McNab shook his head. “All quiet on our front. Nothing from the kids or EW. Evil witch,” he said before Eve could ask. “Callender and I’ve been playing around with a scan program that picks up—kind of hit and miss there—the standard signal from the toy then translates it to our code for a satellite bounce. We’ve been working on filtering out similar signals from the scan. A lot of kid-comms out there.”
“That’s a good thought,” Roarke commented.
“Hit and miss,” McNab repeated. “And the toy has to be on, and the translation has to mesh. We picked up a handful, but did a search run on the locations. Not our kids—established homes with offspring types.”
“We might correlate the sister’s unit,” Roarke began, moving to e-territory linguistically and geographically. “They were purchased at the same time, same place, manufactured at the same time, place, same lot. We could try a splice and lock, then push through a de-babble.”
“Tricky,” McNab decided, but his tired eyes glinted. “And frosty.”
Eve left him to it, turned to Peabody. “Report?”
“We’ve been refining the map, and following it with search and scans on buildings in each separate sector. I’m starting to feel she could be in here, this run between Sixty-sixth and Sixty-eighth, Lex or Third.”
“Why?”
“Just, I don’t know, I keep coming back there, but the probability runs aren’t any better there than the rest of the area.” Peabody rubbed the heels of her hands over her eyes. “I just keep coming back to it.”
“We’ve been able to narrow it a little, Lieutenant,” Trueheart put in. “Eliminate some of the buildings—established families, long-term owners or tenants. Unless . . . the data could’ve been compromised. She could’ve covered herself on it.”
“It feels like spinning wheels,” Peabody admitted. “Except I keep coming back to that more narrow area.”
“Okay, I’ll work it. Baxter, go catch some sleep. Peabody, Trueheart, you’re relieved as soon as Jenkinson and Reineke get in. One of you can go,” she told Callender and McNab.
“I’ve got it,” McNab said.
“I’ve got it,” Callender disagreed.
They eyed each other. “Winner stays,” McNab suggested, held out his fist.
“Fair enough.”
After three shakes of fists, McNab held out two fingers, Callender the flat of her hand. “Damn it,” she muttered. “I figured you for rock. I’ve never done a de-babble on a splice and lock.”
“Go,” Eve ordered. “Grab some food and a rack. Be back by . . .” She checked the time. “Make it seven thirty. Let me see what we’ve got here. Get some coffee,” she told Peabody. “Take a walk.”
Grabbing coffee herself, Eve sat, read over Peabody’s notes, studied the probabilities. Reran them with some slight variations.”
Then she sat back, drinking coffee, studying the map on screen, adjusting highlighted areas in her head.
She read over Borgstrom’s data again, and Mira’s profile and assessments. Rose to study the board, and the map.
When the other men came in, followed by three delivery guys and a boatload of food, more coffee, she stayed hunched over her computer, trying to finesse those angles and probabilities.
“Trueheart,” she said without looking up, “call Peabody in. Grab some fuel, then the two of you go get some sleep. Report back, eight thirty.”
“I can stay, Lieutenant. I’ve got my second wind. Maybe it’s my third.”
She flicked a glance at him. Lack of sleep had leached color from his face, highlighted smudges of fatigue under his eyes. He probably could and would stick it out, but a few hours down would keep him sharper.
“We’ve got it for now. Take the rack, be back by eight thirty.”
“Got some data from IRCCA.” Feeney shoveled eggs in his mouth. “Checked for the results on the way in. Couple may be our girl, but the closest I got is a dead guy in Paris, eight months ago. Sliced and diced—and missing his liver and heart—some evidence it was cooked up, sautéed like with wine and shit, right on site.” He crunched into bacon. “Cops looked for a woman—person of interest—” He paused to inhale more eggs. “Wit statements indicate he maybe had a lady on the side. Wife swears he did, but they never ID’d her.”
“Who was he?”
“Big-deal pastry chef. Did cakes and stuff for the rich set, gave private lessons if you had the money to buy the time. Took him out in the kitchen of his fancy shop on the Chomps de Leezay,” he added, mangling the French over a mouthful of hash browns. “Pulled out half a mill, in cash, the day he bought it.”
“The money, the internal organs. Was he marked?”
“Yeah, that’s how we caught it. Pentagram-type symbol, just over his heart—postmortem.”
“That’s her work,” Eve said, firmly.
“Don’t get how people eat liver, no matter where it comes from. One wit claims she saw him with a brunette, so the hair’s off. But the rest of the description jibes. Five-eight, mid to late thirties, white. I’ll talk to France, see if I can pull out any more.”
“Good. If we factor it in, it narrows her time here. That may help on the location.” She took the slice of bacon Feeney offered her, chewed thoughtfully.
“Reineke, narrow the location search to the last eight months—rent or purchase. I’m going to take a unit, walk around.”
“I’m with you,” Roarke told her.
“You’re probably more useful in here.”
“McNab has this, and Feeney’s here. Two units, more coverage.” He tossed Eve her coat, grabbed his own.
Eve pulled it on, then frowned at the bread pocket he held out.
“What’s that?”
“Breakfast.” He handed her a unit as well, picked up another, and a second bread pocket. “Let’s have a walk, Lieutenant.”
“Feeney, keep it covered,” she said, and biting into the sandwich—warm eggs, crisp bacon, a bit of peppery cheese—headed out the door.
“We’re a couple hours from sunrise,” Eve began. “I looked it up. I don’t see her starting on those kids until morning. Just trying to factor in Mira’s profile, the little else we know, she’s more likely to string this out a few more hours, make her sister sweat through the morning. Or maybe I’m just hoping she will.”
Eve looked down at the silent unit in her hand. “We don’t even know, not for certain, she put them under last night. We’re guessing that, going with the odds. She’s fucking crazy, Roarke. And kids are scary anyway. She could’ve killed them both just to shut them up.”
“You don’t think that, and neither do I. To shut them up she locks them in, drugs them, or just leaves them alone. Alive they’re more exciting. And she wants her sister to choose one of them. One to live, one to die.”
“Whichever one Tosha picks to live? She’ll kill that one first. She’ll figure that’s the one more powerful, more important, and take that one out.”
“The mother won’t pick. They’ll stall.” He took her free hand to warm it in his. “The agents have the experience here, and they’ll have a way to stall it. Buy more time.”
“How much battery life do you figure Henry’s got left on this thing?”
That had been a worry niggling in his brain since the evening before. “At this point, I think no more than an hour, likely less. He won’t have many more chances there, especially if he tries to send those photos.”
“Was I wrong there? To have him use the time left to take a couple pictures he may not even be able to send?”
“Not if it helps you find him.”
“We should separate, focus on Peabody’s hunch.” She paused at the corner. Which way, which way? Where were the goddamn bread crumbs?
“Bread crumbs,” she said out loud. Liked baking cookies, prison kitchen, dead pastry chef. “What if we’re looking for cookie crumbs. She’s making them eat cakes and cookies.”
“Pushing childhood fantasy—all the sweets you can eat?”
“The sweeter to eat you, my dear.”
“You’re mixing your folktales, Lieutenant, but that’s a grim thought. Evil witch, gingerbread house, plump them up to eat.”
“Maybe, and maybe it’s cookies. Bakery. Lives in or works in. Dead baker in Paris, and she doesn’t do anything without purpose. He gave private lessons. Maybe she took lessons, did the vamp thing, killed him and ate his liver.”
“With fava beans and a nice Chianti.”
“What?” She blinked for a beat. “What?”
“An old classic line from an exceptional vid. Hold on a minute.” He pulled out his PPC, began to work. “There’s a bakery on Third, between Sixty-sixth and -seventh. Indulge Yourself. And a little pastry shop on Lex and Sixty-fifth—Magic Sweets.”
“Take the first one,” Eve said immediately. “I’ll take the second.”
“You think it’s the second. Magic—pastries instead of a standard bakery. That’s your instinct.”
“We need to cover both, and the whole thing may be wrong.” She pulled out her comm, intending to tell Reineke to pull data on the two buildings, but switched it to her signaling ’link. Grabbed Roarke’s arm.
“It’s the photos, Henry’s sending the photos.”
“Hello?” The voice piped onto her unit, and Roarke’s. “Is anybody there? I don’t . . . good. Gala won’t . . . up. I don’t feel good.”
“We’re here, Henry. I got the pictures—the door, the bathroom. You did really good.”
“I feel sick. I want to throw up, but I can’t. Ga . . . won’t wake up.”
“Keep him talking,” Roarke murmured, tapped his earpiece. “Yeah, we’ve got the signal.”
He circled his finger at Eve, stepped a foot away, and began to talk geek in a rapid, quiet voice.
“Henry, can you hear anything besides me?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What do you smell?”
“The bathroom doesn’t . . . good.”
“Anything else?” Eve demanded as she studied the picture of a tiny john, narrow, wall-hung sink. Cheap, but new, she decided. And the door—new again, reinforced—and standing out against the rough gray walls.
Basement, goddamn it. Basement.
“Cookies. She made . . . eat cookies. I don’t want . . . cookies . . . Mommy.”
“Okay, Henry, just hang on. I’m losing him,” she hissed to Roarke. “He’s starting to break up more, and for longer.”
Roarke shot up a finger to silence her, continued his rapid conversation even as he worked the little toy and his own PPC.
“Henry, look at the walls. You said no windows, but does it look like there were windows and they got covered over?”
“No, I don’t . . . I don’t know. It smells wet and . . . Grandma’s basement.”
There! Eve thought, and considered it confirmed. “Good, that’s good. That’s helping.”
“South, move south,” Roarke said under his breath. “Keep him talking.”
She didn’t question, just began to jog beside Roarke. “Henry, can you hear the evil witch before she opens the door? Do you hear her coming?”
“Gala . . . Daddy says . . . ears like a bat. Gala listens for her . . . talk to you . . . won’t wake up!” His voice broke on a shaky sob. “Did . . . kill . . .”
“West,” Roarke snapped, turning the corner.
“You hold on, Henry. I’m losing him, Roarke.”
“Not yet,” Roarke murmured. “Not yet.”
She glanced up at the street sign. “It’s the pastry shop.”
“Maybe. The trace is fragile, barely there. A bit stronger when he’s talking.”
“Henry, tell me your full name, your date of birth, your sister’s.”
Roarke spared her a glance while Henry recited, shook his head at her shrug.
“Talk to him,” she ordered Roarke, then pulled out her comm.
“Magic Sweets, Lexington at Sixty-fifth. Get me back up, call the rest of the team in, relate to the feds. I’m not waiting.”
She kicked up her pace, listening to the boy’s voice talk about a magic spell and a brave prince, a talking dragon. Listening to the voice fade, fade, fade.
“His battery’s dead. Bugger it.”
“It doesn’t matter.” She stopped, and she drew her weapon as she studied the trim, three-story building. The storefront pastry shop’s display window was empty and dark, as was what she assumed was an apartment above.
But she saw a faint backwash of light spilling out of the back of the shop.
“We’re going in, and going fast and quiet. Maybe she’s upstairs, sleeping. Or maybe she’s in the back there, baking up something to force on those kids.”
“Closed for remodeling,” Roarke said, reading the sign on the door. “You know what you say about coincidences.”
“They’re crap.”
“Alarm? Cam?”
“Both. Let’s see what I can do.”
“Whatever it is, hurry.”
CHAPTER TEN
“Feeney,” she hissed into her comm. “Can you pull up blueprints on this building? Do we have a basement?”
“Let me work on it.”
“No time. Roarke’s through the security. We’re going in.”
“Reineke, Jenkinson, McNab on their way to you. Feds sending men in. Full team heading back.”
“We’re not waiting. I don’t know the status of the girl. Clear?” she asked Roarke.
“You’re clear.”
“Straight through to the back,” she told him. “Clear as we go. Look for a door. She’d have it secured. And if we’re wrong and some nice grandmother type is back there, we’ll apologize.”
“It works for me. On three?”
“One, two—” She went low and left. He went high and right. Skirting a couple of tiny tables, then a long display counter, she moved straight toward the rear and that light. And music, she realized.
The bitch was singing.
She smelled the sugar—the warm, comforting scent of fresh baking.
A moment before Eve reached the door, Roarke grabbed her arm, pointed up.
She saw the internal cam, the tiny red eye of it. Cursing, she started to ease back out of range.
Too late.
The door between the kitchen and showroom slammed.
Eve reared back, kicked it, reared back again. And she and Roarke kicked it together. She caught a glimpse—just the shoulder, a bounce of a blonde ponytail, before the door to the right shut, clicked.
She started to kick again.
“Wait. A minute, a minute.” Roarke bent to the lock. “It’s reinforced. You’ll just break your foot on the bastard.”
“Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
“Does it look like I’m taking my bloody time with it? There.”
He yanked it open, and together they ran down the steps. She swept out with her weapon.
Damp, chilly, dark, but the faintest hint of light at the door at the base of the steps.
She went carefully, mindful of booby traps, and continued to sweep when they reached the bottom. Roarke went to work on the next door.
“I can hear them.” Straining, Eve caught the muffled sounds through the thick walls and doors. Screaming.
It was their monster, not hers, that came through the door.
She remembered being too late before—a child, just a little girl and the man hyped-on Zeus with a knife. Seconds too late to stop him from slicing up that tender flesh.
Not this time, not this time. Please, God, hurry.
And at Roarke’s nod, they hit the door together.
She had the ritual knife at the girl’s throat, her arm clamped around the boy’s.
She’d trapped herself, Eve thought, in a room with no way out, because spilling blood was what she wanted most.
“Stun me. My hand jerks, she’s dead. Pretty little girl with her pretty little throat slit wide.”
Identical but for the birthmark, Tosha had said. Yet Eve saw subtle
differences. This face was leaner, a little longer, and these ice blue eyes held a wild glitter.
“We’re going to hold back here.” Eve spoke with her eyes on Maj, but the words were for her Roarke. “Just hold. Your back’s to the wall here, Maj. If you cut her, I take you down.”
“If you take me down, I cut her. I kill her. And maybe have just enough time to wring this little bastard’s neck. Drop the stunners, both of you. Drop them and move aside. I’m walking out of here.”
“Not going to happen.” She could take the head shot, Eve calculated, but the jolt would slice the knife right across Gala’s throat. No way around it.
“Maybe you take the kids out, maybe not. But there’s no doubt you’re down.” Eve flicked a glance at the kids, hoping the calm in her voice would reassure them, keep them still. She saw the way their eyes tracked to each other’s, held. The fear, yes, fear with the shine of tears, but something more, something intense.
Were they . . . communicating?
“I’ll trade them both for Tosha, my syster. Bring her here, and I’ll let them both go. Fast, fast, or I bleed her like a little piggie.”
“Why her?” Distract, Eve thought. If she could distract, just enough to move the knife a fraction away, she could take the risk, take the shot. “Why not him?”
“Girls are more tender. Sugar and spice.” She smiled as she said it, smiled madly. “Sugar and spice and blood. Snakes and snails for him.”
“Don’t you want to know which one she chose?”
“She chose.” Maj’s face illuminated, a fanatical joy. “Tell me, tell me! Which does she love best?”
“How bad do you want to know? You’ve made your choice.” Eve glanced deliberately at Gala. “But is it the same as Tosha’s?”
“Tell me!” In the split second, as Maj’s body shifted forward, as the knife eased a fraction, angling toward Eve in threat, Eve prepared to take the risk.
But the children beat her to it.
Both of them clamped down, fierce little teeth into the exposed flesh of Maj’s forearms. She howled in shock and pain. The knife nicked the side of Gala’s throat before it jerked away.
Eve took the shot, and as Maj’s body jittered, the knife wavered in her shuddering hand.