Easy to cross paths with Denby, she thought as she walked to the elevator. You just had to stroll into the Salon. An art lover, or just a browser. A salesman, another artist.
Chewing on it, she got in the elevator, headed up.
She ignored the cops nearing the end of their shift who trudged on, and the LC with the black eye and split lip who stood stoically on legs scraped raw at the knees.
Because the LC smelled of stale sex and resignation, Eve got off and took the glides the rest of the way to Homicide.
In her office, she updated her board and book to reflect the night’s work. She reupped her hold on the conference room, sent memos to her team to report there.
She shot off a text to Feeney asking him to attend the briefing if it worked with his schedule.
After running a probability—ninety-six-point-eight—she sent an inquiry to Mira asking for confirmation or rebuttal on her belief both killers would remain in New York, in close proximity, and keep their targets in the city.
Couldn’t be a hundred percent, she mused, but if Mira agreed, it added weight.
As the sun came up, filtered light through her skinny window, she reviewed her squad’s caseload—what remained open, what had been closed. What looked to be going cold or heating up.
Made notes.
Finally she gathered what she needed—including a pot of real coffee—and walked to the conference room.
In the quiet, she set up the board lining up the data on interviewees by priority. She earmarked Hugo Markin for a second pass. Not just because he was a prize dick, she told herself. But because there was something there. She felt it in her gut.
Though she’d have preferred to toss the job to Peabody, she struggled her way through programming the data she wanted to put on-screen.
Just as she finished, Feeney walked in.
“You couldn’t have gotten here fifteen minutes ago?”
“Why?”
“Nothing.” On a huff of breath, she shoved her hands through her hair, relieved to have the programming off her task list. “You’re here early.”
“A second ago I was fifteen late. Is that real coffee?”
“Yeah.”
He helped himself. “I got a shit-ton of paperwork piling up. Figured I’d come in early and deal with it. Now I’ve got an excuse not to, and real coffee. It’s a good day.”
He drank half the mug. “Before they get their lovebird asses in here, are you still cutting Peabody loose tomorrow?”
“Yeah. I was going to cancel it—had to—but Roarke stepped in. He’ll cover for her. How did I get to the point I’m letting a civilian cover for my partner?”
“It’s the right civilian.”
“Yeah, but still . . . Shit. Do you have to pull McNab back in?”
“Nah. I’ve got enough boys to work his stuff. You can have Callendar if you need her since she’s got a good rhythm with you and the rest. The wife says I gotta watch this year, and won’t take no.” He grimaced into his coffee. “I gotta watch a bunch of Hollywood types in fancy getups making speeches and shit. I blame you.”
“Me?” Shock, insult vibrated. “Blame Nadine.”
“I blame her, too.” He looked at the board, scanned the names, the faces. “How sure are you they’re on there?”
“At least one of them’s there. At least one. You don’t break into one of Roarke’s places—and this one was high-end—unless you live there or have legit access. I think he or they live there. Know the building, knew Banks. That’s what plays, and since it plays, these are the ones who best fit the profile.”
She got more coffee as he studied the board. “I have to watch, too.”
“Your own fault.”
“It’s Nadine’s fault,” Eve insisted, with considerable frustration. “I was doing the job. She wrote the damn book, then the script thing. And if she wins this thing? Every time I think it’s going to ease off—there are people saying: Oh, I read the book, saw the vid. Big fan! Like I give a cold crap about any of that. If she wins this damn thing, it’s going to be an even bigger pain in my ass.”
She cut herself off mid rant when Whitney stepped in.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant, Captain. I noted you’d reserved the conference room. I’m only here for a short time this morning as Anna and I are attending Derrick Pearson’s memorial.” He walked to the board as he spoke. “He’s one of eighteen now.”
“It’s a tough one, Commander,” Feeney said.
“Yes.”
They went back, Eve knew. Way back. But it wouldn’t be Jack and Ryan under these circumstances.
“Are these your primary suspects?”
“At this time, yes, sir.”
“From your last report, you’ve found no direct link to either Paul Rogan or Wayne Denby.”
“Not to them or to any of the victims as yet.”
“Not to Derrick,” Whitney murmured. “So if I happen to see one of these faces at the memorial . . .”
“I’d very much appreciate it, should that transpire, if you would bring said individual into Central.”
Whitney smiled, grimly. “You can count on it. I’ll stay for the briefing, or as much as I can. Is that real coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
She moved to pour him some herself, heard Peabody’s clump, McNab’s prance. “Peabody—” Eve’s brows drew together at Peabody’s overbright eyes and wildly patterned scarf. “Before you settle in, go program another pot of coffee from my office.”
“You got it! Good morning, Commander! Hey, Feeney! Be right back!” Exclamation points struck every couple of words before she all but bounced away.
McNab lifted his skinny shoulders in a gesture as sheepish as his smile. “She’s a little buzzed,” he explained to Eve.
“She’s what?”
“Departmentally approved booster,” he said quickly. “She put in a long night because grateful—me, too—about the Oscar thing. Beyond mega thanks on that, Dallas.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m fucking serious.”
“Okay, but see she gets a little hyped on the boost, but more before I caught her, she’d dipped into our emergency stash of espresso. It’s like gold, you know—we bought it for each other at Christmas. Anyway, she took a shot of that, so she’s pretty buzzed out.”
“Keep her under control,” Eve warned.
“Trying.”
Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes. When Baxter and Trueheart walked in, she hoped they’d balance things out.
Then Peabody came in. She’d ditched the scarf and the pink coat. Eve almost preferred them to the screaming red sweater with fussy pink flounces at the cuffs, the shiny, electric-blue jacket and Jesus neon-green pants with frigging pink flowers down the sides.
“Peabody.” Baxter let out a half laugh. “You look like a garden.”
“It’s almost spring! Coffee!”
“None for you,” Eve snapped.
“Aw!”
“Water,” she ordered McNab. “Only water.”
“On it.”
“Sit.” She pulled the pot from Peabody, who she noted with resignation, also smelled like a garden. “I’m going to summarize where we are, then we’ll move on to where we’re going. Before I do: Feeney, anything?”
“Entry to the Rogan and Denby houses by the same methods. We’ve found nothing on either man’s communications or data systems, their house systems, office systems, the devices of family members, that connect them to the bombings. EDD concurs with Homicide these individuals were coerced and not complicit.
“Banks,” he continued. “The more we look, the shadier he comes off. We got nothing linking him directly with the bombings at this point. If he wasn’t dead, he’d do a nice long stretch for fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, and more petty shit, but he’s dead. He had some gambling debts—nothing big enough for spine-crackers—but there might be a connection there. You got that in the last report.”
“We’ll follow it up,” Eve confirmed.
“McNab’s got some he dug out last night.”
“We’ve got a tag coming in on Banks’s house ’link,” McNab began. “He had one in the pantry deal in the kitchen they missed when they turned the place.”
“A house ’link in the pantry?”
“Yeah,” he told Eve. “A mini I guess he had in there for the droids to use. On the night of his murder, just before midnight he got a tag on it. No message when the ’link went to the answering system. Another tag to Denby’s house ’link two hours earlier. A hang-up when answered from the residence. Another to the Richie apartment minutes before the bombing at The Salon, and one more to Rogan’s house ’link on the night of the home invasion at twenty-two-ten. A hang-up when answered.”
Subtly, he pressed a hand to Peabody’s bouncing knee, kept talking. “All of these tags were made from a cloner. We can’t trace the device, but we’ve been working on tracing the locations of the transmissions. We nailed Richie’s first—he only had the one house ’link, and apparently didn’t really use it. The transmission came from right outside the building.”
“Making sure nobody was in the unit,” Eve concluded. “Maybe Richie had a friend over, a woman in there, whatever. Just making sure the space was clear.”
“We figure, yeah, as we’ve nailed down Banks. Lived alone, too, rarely used the house system. Transmission in this case? From inside the building.”
“Inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eve looked back at the board. “One of them lives there, was on a guest list or vendor employ. But lives there works best. Banks contacted them that day. It’s a big stretch to believe his killers just happened to be going to a party in his building, or to a job there. Security’s tight there, as good as it gets. We bump down the guests and the vendors. We’re going to interview the ones that fit profile, but they’re not priority.