"Sooner than you think."
"Perhaps, perhaps. Meanwhile, another riddle. A race this time. The next sinner is still alive, still blissfully unaware of his punishment. By his words, and God's law, he will be condemned. Heed this. 'A faithful man will abound with blessings, but he who hastens to be rich will not go unpunished.' He's gone unpunished long enough."
"For what?"
"For a lying tongue. You have twenty-four hours to save a life, if God wills it. Your riddle: He's fair of face and once lived by his wits. Now those wits are dulled as like poor old Dicey Riley, he's taken to the sup. He lives where he works and works where he lives, and all the night serves others what he craves most. He traveled across the foam but closes himself in a place that reminds him of home. Unless you find him first, his luck runs out tomorrow morn. Better hurry."
Eve stared at the screen long after it went blank.
"Sorry, Dallas, no good on the trace. Maybe the e-detective can do something with it when he gets here."
"Who the hell is Dicey Riley?" Eve muttered. "What does he mean 'sup'? Like supper? Food maybe. Restaurants. Irish restaurants."
"I think that's an oxymoron."
"Huh?"
"Bad joke," Peabody offered with a sick smile. "To lighten the mood."
"Right." Eve dropped in her chair. "Computer, list name and locations for all Irish restaurants in the city. Hard copy." She swiveled in her chair. "Contact Tweeser—she was head sweeper on Brennen. Tell her I need something, anything. And have a uniform go over to the Towers and get those security discs. Let's move."
"Moving," Peabody agreed and headed out.
• • •
An hour later, Eve was pouring over the sweeper's report. There was little to nothing to study. "Bastard didn't leave so much as a nose hair to scoop up." She rubbed her eyes. She needed to go back to the scene, she decided, walk through it, try to visualize it all. All she could see was the blood, the gore, the waste.
She needed to clear her vision.
The Biblical
quote had come from Proverbs again. She could only assume that the intended victim wanted to be rich. And that, she decided, narrowed it down to every single sinning soul in New York City.
Revenge was the motive. Money for betrayal? she wondered. Someone connected to Brennen? She called up the lists Roarke had accessed and transmitted, scanned the names of Thomas Brennen's associates, friends.
No lovers, she mused. And Roarke would have found any if they'd existed. Thomas Brennen had been a faithful husband, and now his wife was a widow.
At the sharp rap on her doorjamb, she glanced up, frowned distractedly at the man grinning at her. Mid-twenties, she judged, with a pretty-boy face and a love of fashion.
He barely topped five-eight even in the neon yellow air boots. He wore denim above them, pants that bagged and a jacket that showed frayed cuffs. His hair was a bright new minted gold that flowed into a waist-length ponytail. He had half a dozen small, glinting gold hoops in his left earlobe.
"You took a wrong turn, pal. This is Homicide."
"And you'd be Dallas." His bright, eager grin pinched twin dimples into his cheeks. His eyes were a misty green. "I'd be McNab, with EDD."
She didn't groan. She wanted to, but suppressed it into a quiet sigh as she held out a hand. Good Christ was all she could think, as he took it with fingers twinkling with rings. "You're one of Feeney's."
"Joined his unit six months ago." He glanced around her dim, cramped office. "You guys in Homicide really got squeezed in the budget cuts. We got closets bigger than this in EDD."
He glanced over, then beamed a fresh smile as Peabody stepped up beside him. "Nothing like a woman in uniform."
"Peabody, McNab."
Peabody took a long, critical study, scanning glints and glitters. "This is the EDD dress code?"
"It's Saturday," McNab said easily. "I got the call at home, thought I'd swing in and see what's up. And we're a little loose over at EDD."
"Obviously." Peabody started to squeeze by him, narrowing her eyes when he grinned again.