"Fine it down. Get me an address."
"Working on it." He flapped his hands behind him where Eve hovered. "Give me some room here, though I'd like to mention you smell terrific. Origin of traced transmission New York City, find zone."
Tracking…estimated time to complete, eight minutes, fifteen seconds.
"Begin. I could use a burger. Got any stocked?"
Eve struggled to find patience. "How do you want it?"
"Rare. A slice of provolone and plenty of mustard—poppy seed roll, pasta salad on the side, and a cup of that wicked coffee."
Eve drew a breath in, let a breath out. "What?" she said sweetly. "No dessert?"
"Now that you mention it, how about—"
"Lieutenant." Peabody hurried into the room. "I've got the data on the last victim."
"In the kitchen, Peabody, I'm fixing the detective his lunch."
The killing look Peabody aimed at McNab was answered with a cheeky grin.
"How much longer before Feeney gets back?" Peabody wanted to know.
"One hundred and two hours and twenty-three minutes. But who's counting the time?" Eve programmed the AutoChef for McNab's choices. "What have you got?"
"Victim departed Shannon airport yesterday on a four p.m. transport. Arrived Kennedy-Europa annex at one P.M. EST. She checked into the Palace at approximately two o'clock, into a prepaid suite. It was booked and paid through Roarke Industries."
"Fuck it."
"At four, the victim left the hotel. I haven't been able to track a cab company who picked her up. Got the name of the doorman who was on duty. He'll be back on in about an hour. The victim left the key to her room at the concierge station. She never picked it back up."
"Have them block off her room—no one goes in. Get a uniform to stand until we get over there."
"Already done."
Eve pulled McNab's lunch out. "Get yourself something to eat. It's going to be a long day."
Peabody sniffed at the burger. "Maybe McNab has taste in something. I'll have one of them. Want anything?"
"Later." Eve walked back into the office, dropped the plate on the desk. "Progress."
"Got the zone nailed, it's searching for sector. We're closing in." He hefted the burger one-handed, bit in heartily. "God love us," he managed over a full mouth. "From a real cow or I'm a Frenchman. Better than mother's milk. Want a bite?"
"I'll pass. McNab, aren't all those earrings heavy on the lobe? You keep adding them on, you're going to start walking on a slant."
"Fashion demands a heavy price. Here she comes. Zone five, yeah, yeah, sector A-B." With a hand studded with rings, he shoved his plate off the chart he had spread over the desk. "That puts us"—his limber fingers trailed over the chart, stopped—"just about here. Here," he said, raising his gaze to Eve. "Right about where I'm sitting eating this really remarkable cow burger."
"That's wrong."
"I'll run it again, but it's telling me the transmission originated in this house, or on the grounds. This place takes up this entire sector."
"Run it again," she ordered and turned away.
"Yes, sir."
"McNab, what's the error probability on that unit?"
He fiddled with the red ribbon he wore as a tie. "Less than one percent."