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Eve scratched her ear. “Okay. How about a flop for a couple of nights. A room, a bed. No shelter.”
Kip and Bob exchanged looks. “Where at?” Kip demanded.
“Officer Guilder, is there a hotel nearby that will take them for a couple of nights? On the city.”
“Sure. I know a place on Broad. The Metro Arms.”
Another look passed between the scavengers. “We don’t pay?”
“No, the city pays to show appreciation for your help.” Though hers were still sealed, Eve stopped short of shaking hands.
“Don’t need to kill for stuff,” Kip said.
“People leave it all over anyway,” Bop added.
Out on the street, Eve studied the building and those surrounding it while sweepers moved in and out. “If you live or work around here, you know buildings like this. Killer’s turf, with the advantage of being way, way off the vic’s.”
“And without Kip and Bop, we’re chasing our tails for Sandy for days, maybe more. All the arrows point to him for Coltraine. When we find him, it looks like he’d gone to ground, got rolled, got killed. You could construe he took off to avoid arrest—and that being tight with Alex, Alex remains a suspect on Coltraine.”
“You could construe.”
“Except for our motto.” Peabody put on a serious look. “We’re not idiots.”
“Too bad for Sandy, he was. Let’s go write it up.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
There was plenty of action in Central in the dark hours. The whines of street LCs, the moans or giggles of junkies, the weeping of victims. Eve closed herself into her office to translate her record into a report.
When her ’link signaled, she pounced on it. “Callendar. Gimme.”
Callendar grinned. “I got gimmes. Let me start with a big, juicy belch. Two, in fact. Transmissions from Omega to New York, confirmed. Both sending and receiving on unregistered ’links. And yeah, baby, that would be the same ’link used on the home planet. They match.”
“Oh yeah, baby,” Eve echoed.
“Encrypted transmissions from here to there were not logged. Big no-nos on the party palace of Omega.”
“Can you break them?”
“No encryption defeats me. But it’s going to take a little time, and a couple hours’ sleep. Meanwhile, Sisto had a little chat with our old friend Cecil Rouche’s drinking buddy, who also just happened to be on communications at the time in question. Guy named Art Zeban. Zeban played it dumb at the jump, but smartened up when Sisto leaned on him. Which Sisto reports he enjoyed bunches. Zeban claims Rouche gave him a thousand a pop to keep the transes off log. Just a favor for a pal, with compensation.”
“This is good.”
“Better is that the Gs included wiping the record of Ricker’s hygiene break.”
“It’s gone.”
“Please.” Callendar waved a hand in the air as if flicking off a gnat. “Nothing’s ever gone when I’m around. I’ll dig it out. Meanwhile in the meanwhile, I got authorization to search Rouche’s quarters.”
“Does he know?”
“Not yet. We’re—”
“Keep him in the dark. Make sure he’s unable to make any contact on planet—or off. No communications. Wrap him up, Callendar, and wrap him tight. Bring him and his drinking buddy home.”
“All over that. This shit is fun!”
