“Then I’ll help you with that.”
“What I want is to plug in all her flights.”
“All?”
“Yeah, all. Then we’re going to run the manifest through, each one, see if any dupe names pop. Or any name on my case file list.” She licked ice cream off her finger. “And yeah, I’m aware the transpo company offices are closed. Lazy bastards. And that accessing passenger information generally requires authorization.”
He smiled, easily. “I didn’t say a thing.”
“I’m just looking is all I’m doing. And if anything pops, then I’ll backtrack, go through channels. But I’m sick to fucking death of running in place.”
“Still said nothing.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“What I’m thinking is you need to move. I want your chair.”
“Why?”
“If I’m going to get this data, and we both know I can access it faster than you, I want the chair and the desk. Why don’t you deal with those dishes?”
She grumbled, but got up. “You’re lucky I’ve got some holiday spirit and didn’t clock you for the ‘deal with those dishes’ crack.”
“Ho, ho, ho.” He sat in her place and rolled up his sleeves. “Coffee’d be nice.”
“Thin ice, Ace. Cracking under your expensive shoes.”
“And a cookie. You ate most of my gelato.”
“Did not,” she called from the kitchen. Well, yes, she had, but that was beside the point.
Still, she wanted coffee herself, so she could as easily get two mugs. To amuse herself she got out a single minicookie, barely the size of her thumb. She put it and his mug on a plate.
“I guess the least I can do is get you coffee and a cookie when you’re putting the time in for me.” She came up behind him, leaned down to plant a wifely kiss on the top of his head.
Then she set the plate down. He glanced over at it, then up at her. “That’s cold, Eve. Even for you.”
“I know. And fun, too. What’ve you got?”
“I’m accessing her account, to determine what transportation company she used for her trips. When I have that, I’ll do a search on the dates that coordinate for her passport. Then I’ll get your manifests, and run a search there. I think that deserves a bleeding cookie.”
“Like this one.” From behind her back she pulled a decorated sugar cookie. Whatever else she could say about Summerset, and there was plenty, the man could bake.
“That’s more like it. Now why don’t you come and sit on my lap?”
“Just get the data, pal. I know it’s insulting to ask, but are you going to have any trouble with CompuGuard on this?”
“I’m ignoring that as you provided the cookie.”
She left him to it, set up at her auxiliary comp.
What, she wondered, did other married couples do after dinner? Hang and watch screen maybe, or go to their separate areas and fiddle with their hobbies or work. Talk on the ‘link to pals or family. Have people over.
They did some of that. Sometimes. Roarke had gotten her hooked on vids, especially the old black-and-whites from the early and mid-twentieth century. There were nights, here and there, they whiled away a couple hours that way—the way, she imagined, most considered normal.
If it was normal to while away a couple hours in a home theater bigger—certainly lusher—than most of the public ones.
Before Roarke had come into her life, she’d spent most nights alone, going over notes, gnawing at a case. Unless Mavis had pried her out for fun and games. She couldn’t have imagined herself like this, socked in with someone. So in tune with someone despite some of their elemental differences.
Now she couldn’t imagine it any other way.
With marriage on her mind, she moved to Bobby and Zana. They hadn’t been married long, so the assumption would be they’d spend a good deal of their time together. They worked together, lived together. Traveled, as least on this fatal trip, together.
Her search turned up a passport for Bobby. The last stamp four years earlier. Australia. A couple of other, earlier trips, each spaced about a year apart. One to Portugal, one to London.
Vacations, she decided. Annual jaunts. But nothing that required a passport since Australia.
Other travel, maybe. Starting a new business—maybe shorter, cheaper trips.
No passport for Zana, maiden name or married. Well, a lot of people never left the country. She hadn’t herself, before Roarke.
But she sat back, considered. Wouldn’t Bobby want to take his new bride on some big trip? Honeymoon, whatever. Show her some part of the world, especially one he’d traveled to and enjoyed.
That was one of Roarke’s deals, anyway. Let me show you the world.
Of course, maybe they hadn’t had the time, or wanted to spend the money. Not yet. Maybe he’d decided to start with New York once the idea was popped by his mother. It made sense enough.
But it was something to wonder about.
She poked at the other fosters again, looking for some connection, some click. One in a cage, one dead, she thought.
But what if—
“Got your manifests here.”
Distracted, she glanced over. “Already?”
“One day you’ll afford me the awe I so richly deserve.”
“You’re rich enough to afford your own awe. What about matches?”
“If you’re in a hurry, you take half.” He tapped keys. “There. Transferring to you. Handle it from there?”
“I know how to do a search and match,” she muttered, and set it up to run. She swiveled around to look at him. “I’ve got these two long shots. Just plucking out of the air. One of the fosters is in a cage. Assaults, mostly. No family, no known associates in particular. Nothing in her jacket to indicate any real smarts, or connections. But maybe Trudy tried to hit her up along the line. So this career violent tendency decides to get back some of her own. Works a deal with somebody who’s close, or can get close to the mark. Take her out—got your revenge—make some money while you’re at it.”
“How would this person know Trudy was going to New York now, with the idea of shaking us down, and be able to put this kill together so quickly?”
“The kill’s of the moment. I still say that. Could’ve had the shill in place already. And yeah, I know it’s a long one. But I’m going to have another chat with the warden after Christmas. Maybe reach out to her last arresting officer.”
“And the other shot in the dark?”
“One of the fosters worked as a dancer in that club that was bombed a few years ago. Miami. Remember, a couple of bonzos got through the door, protesting sin or something. Things went wrong and the boomers blew. Took out over a hundred and fifty people.”
“I don’t remember, sorry. Before you, I can’t say I paid as much attention to that sort of thing.” But he stopped what he was doing, considered it. “So she survived?”
“No. At least she’s listed among the dead. But it was an underground club, and they run loose. Explosions, body parts flying. Blood, terror, confusion.”
“I get the picture, thanks.” He sat back, walking his mind along the path she was taking. “So, she somehow survives, is misidentified, and lives to plot Trudy’s eventual demise?”
“It’s an angle,” Eve said stubbornly. “There are others. Somebody close to her comes back on Trudy. Revenge again. A lover or a close friend. I can talk to some of the survivors anyway, some of the people she worked with. Maybe get a clearer picture of her at least.”
She got up to pace. “And there’s this other thing going through my head. Did Trudy ever catch Bobby sneaking food to one of the girls? If so, what did she do about it? To her, to him. Or later, when he was older, did he ever get in contact with one of them? Or did one of them ever approach him? He never said anything about that. Easiest way to get to Trudy, it seems to me, would be through him.”
“You’re back to Zana.”
“Yeah.”
“Try this. What is it about Zana Lombard that keeps you circling back?”