“Which would make them normal, wouldn’t it?”
“That’s exactly right. And that’s what you’re doing. Giving them a chance for normal. It’s big, Roarke. I’d like a walk-through.”
“Good, we’ll set it up. I want, very much, for you to see what it’s becoming.”
She thought of the girls they’d found there—those long-dead girls. And knew he’d always think of them, too. “When do you figure you’ll open?”
“We’re planning for spring. May, if all continues to go well. We’ve already contracted some of the key staff, and we’re interviewing and vetting others.”
“You move fast, ace.”
“If I didn’t, we might not be sitting here now, having pizza and wine.”
“Sure we would.” She ate another bite. “You’d have caught up with me eventually.”
He laughed, took a second slice. “Your headache’s gone.”
“Yeah, it is.”
And because it was, because of all she had—right here—she added another dollop of wine to her glass and embraced the moment.
After the meal, she went straight to coffee. The work, the job, the hours ahead would be long and tedious. The conclusions her instincts pointed her to had to be set to the side.
Facts and evidence, she reminded herself. The gut wasn’t enough.
“What’s my assignment?” Roarke asked her.
“We’ve culled out names from the gala’s guest and staff lists. Males that fit the elements of Mira’s profile, with a little refining. The probability, given current evidence and statements, runs more than ninety percent he was there. It’s possible he crashed, isn’t on either list, but that’s where we start.”
She ordered the list Peabody’d sent her on her wall screen. “This is my share. I’ve cut down Mira’s age bracket. I’m reasonably sure he’s closer to thirty than fifty, otherwise these individuals run on what she profiled. We’re going to dig down, every name. Family, education, travel, finances, any criminal however small—including traffic violations. Medical that we can get—and for now, no hacking.”
“Lieutenant,” he said with sorrow. “You spoil my fun.”
“For now,” she said again. “We get this list down, I’ll wrestle out a warrant for deeper, for any sealed files, for the works. Connections to theater or screen—anything involving the level of makeup and costuming the UNSUB uses, that’s a big bonus if found. Same with any major interest in e-work.”
“As both of those may simply be a hobby, something that wouldn’t show in the data.”
“That’s it. I’m going to give you the first five.”
“It seems a lot of names for the profile.”
“Some of them were married or cohabbed at the time of the gala, and now aren’t. We’re checking them. Some are staff who, while not assigned specifically to the gala, would have easy access. Peabody added those, and she’s not wrong.”
“I’ll start in my office. I need to multitask for the next hour or so. Then I may join you in here.”
Eve settled into it. It was routine—tedious, but routine—with a rhythm she knew well. Within thirty minutes, she’d eliminated two names, one as she could confirm he’d been in Rio on the night the Patricks had been assaulted, and the second who’d been involved in a vehicular accident the day of the Strazzas’ attack, and was still recovering from a fractured ankle and other injuries.
She moved on, discarding, earmarking for a yet deeper search.
When Roarke came in, she’d just programmed more coffee as she studied the next subject.
“This guy went to clown school. Why is there a school for clowns? Why are there clowns?”
“Someone has to make ’em laugh.”
She slid her gaze to his face. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “While some fear the clown, many more are vastly entertained.”
“This guy supplements his income in food services by dressing up in weird getups for parties and benefits. Or his income in food services supplements his clown gigs. Hard to tell. But there you have makeup and costumes and a propensity to scare the shit out of people.”
“Some people.”
Sincerely shocked, she gaped at him. “You like clowns?”
“Like is a strong word in this context.” He helped himself to her coffee. “I assume the clown goes on the suspect list.”
“You bet your ass.”
“I have one out of my five that bears a deeper look. The others I’ve eliminated, for reasons I’ve detailed in my memo back to you.”
“Good. I’ve got three out of nine.”
Roarke lifted an eyebrow. “You’re quicker at this.”
“I’m the cop.” And a human being, she thought, who could use a little smugness. “Want another set?”
“All right.” He sat at the auxiliary, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up.
She sent him five more, settled back into the rhythm.
At one point, she sat back. “I don’t think this guy’s a killer—or not ours anyway—but he’s sure as hell into something hinky.”
“Hinky as in supporting a sidepiece, travel and gifts for same—I’ve had a few of those—or hinky as in criminal?”
“Both actually. But I think the sidepiece is also a partner. A lot of travel for her, a lot of suspicious deposits—smallish, that added together aren’t smallish. Sixty to eighty large every six weeks, when she travels to Argentina—no relatives or business there on record. The deposits disappear, except for an exact ten percent.”