“Yeah, he’s got nothing better to do. We’re going to need a table where we can bounce things around as they come. And I need to update my—”
“We’ve a nice roomy snug.” Roarke snagged Eve’s hand before she could stop him. “Not to worry.”
“Roomy and snug are opposites.”
Feeney just shook his head at Jamie. “You’ve got a lot to learn, boy.”
They rounded the corner. “So, can I get a brew?”
“No,” Eve and Feeney said together.
“You’re underage. Too young,” Feeney said, “and you know it.”
“If we’re working, nobody gets a brew.”
At Eve’s statement, Feeney sighed. “That’s a damn shame.”
People packed the outdoor tables, and the interior hopped. The music piping through the speakers plastered a grin on Feeney’s face. And the air smelled of prime eats.
A waitress with a bright red braid and a face full of freckles paused with a tray of pints on her hip.
“Good evening to you! We’ve got you all set up in the snug, sir. I’ll take you back as soon as I’ve served these pints.”
“I know the way, thanks.”
“Well then, I’ll come around and take your orders before you know it.”
“Is that accent real?” Eve wondered as Roarke wove the way through tables and around a long, busy bar.
“It would be, yes. She’s from Cork if I remember it right.”
He opened a door, herded them in, closed it.
The noise level dropped by half.
It proved a roomy snug, with what looked like three smaller tables pushed together to make one. The space included a one-person workstation, a wall screen, a wing chair, and a low sofa—the sort that whispered: Nap here.
The table already held two boards with rounds of brown bread, dishes of butter, three large bottles of water, and wedges of lemons and limes.
“Okay, I get roomy.” Jamie immediately attacked the bread. “Why is it a snug?”
“A cozy sort of place,” Roarke told him. “And private. Well back in the day a place where those who didn’t want to be seen lifting a pint could drink. An old tradition, mostly abandoned now, but I liked the idea of it for this place.”
“Frosty.” He slathered butter on the bread, devoured it, then grinned at his godfather. “Prime.”
Eve sat, took out her PPC, and got to work.
“I can write it up.”
She shook her head at Peabody. “I’ve got it.”
“Then can I take five minutes to consult with McNab on the tile so we can put the order in and not break the sacred pinky swear?”
Without looking up, Eve held up five fingers while the other cops—and the intern—talked about the menu.
The waitress popped in. “I’m Morah, and Jack—who’ll be along—and I will be serving you tonight. Now, what can I get you fine officers of the law to drink this evening?”
“Coffee, black,” Eve said, again without looking up.
As the orders went around and Morah gave her spiel about specials, Jamie dropped into the chair beside Eve.
“So, what’s the story with Quilla?”
“Why?”
“Wondering.”
Now Eve looked up. “You’re too old for her.”
“Come on. Too young for a beer, but too old for the cute girl?”
“Yes. Go away. Working.”
By the time she’d written the report, sent the update to Mira, the commander, and Reo, the waitstaff had not only served the coffee but brought in a coffee service for easy refills. And were busily taking orders.
“And what’s your pleasure tonight, Lieutenant?”
She hadn’t thought about it, or glanced at the menu. “Burger’s good. Burger and fries. Thanks. He’d want top security,” she said to Feeney. “Anyplace he’d use to hold these women, he’d need it secure. Maybe he had a new system put in, or added to one.”
“We can work with that. Jamie, start looking for permits, issued after September eighteenth, on security systems. Start top-line, work down. Stick to the sector, then spread out.”
Eve looked down the table at Roarke, who seemed deep in a conversation with Reineke that didn’t look like cop work.
“The search.”
“It’s running. You should try the fried clam table appetizer,” Roarke advised. “It’s lovely.”
Eve looked at the trio of nearly depleted dishes, considered what clams looked like before frying.