“You could fit it into a standard briefcase broken down,” Eve observed.
“Correct, but if you have any respect for your weapon, you have a case with molded slots for the parts.”
“It wouldn’t get through security in a government building, a museum, that kind of public building.”
“Not a chance,” Lowenbaum said.
“Okay, so most likely an apartment building, a hotel, a retail or rental space of some kind.”
She wandered, thinking, as Lowenbaum competently reassembled the weapon.
“Who’s best at this sort of reconstruction at the lab?” she asked.
“It’s going to be Dickhead,” Lowenbaum said.
“Come on, does it have to be?” They called the chief lab tech Dickhead for a reason.
“It does. You give him the push, I’ll work with him when I can.”
“I won’t turn that down. Thanks.”
“No thanks needed, because unless I’m way off, Dallas, you’ve got yourself an LDSK.”
“An LDSK?”
Eve turned to Roarke. “Long-distance serial killer.”
“Cops,” he murmured. “Who else would have the acronym at hand?”
“Wouldn’t need one if people weren’t so fucked-up. Who do you know who could make those three strikes?”
Lowenbaum puffed out a breath. “I could. I’ve got a couple guys on my team who could. And yeah, I get you need to run them, but there’s no way. I know a few other guys, and I’ll make you a damn list. I’m going to say I know a few who could make the strikes. I don’t know anybody who would.”
“Names would help anyway.”
“And it could be a pro, Dallas. You can pull up a list there as easy as I can.”
“I will. But who’d hire a pro to kill a part-time student/part-time barista – female vic. An OB/GYN – vic two. A high school history teacher?”
“People are fucked-up,” Lowenbaum reminded her.
“Yeah, they are.”
“You’re the murder cop. You do what you do there, and I’ll do what I can on the tactical end. Three strikes like that?” The way he shook his head transmitted both admiration and concern. “The shooter’s feeling pretty fine right now.”
“And feeling pretty fine, he’ll want to feel pretty fine again.”
After Lowenbaum left, Eve set up her murder board, then sat to put together her notes and observations.
“You’ll eat,” Roarke said – firmly.
“Yeah, whatever.”
“It’s the stew you like.” He solved the issue by pulling her out of her desk chair. “You can eat and think, and tell me what you know or what you think.”
It helped when she did – and the stew thing smelled really good.
“You know, before I caught this, I was in my office thinking, Hey, quiet evening at home. A little wine, a little dinner, maybe a vid, a little sex.”
Because he knew how much coffee she’d drink in the next few hours, he pushed her water glass toward her. “We’ll fit some of that in, won’t we?”
“The girl, Ellissa Wyman. I already had the gut feeling, but as soon as I reviewed the security feed, I knew. The way she flew. Had to be high impact, and nobody on the rink or around saw anything. You don’t get off three streams without somebody seeing something. You sure as hell don’t get them off when a cop reviews the tape, byte by byte, and sees nothing. The odds of me finding where those strikes initiated? I wouldn’t bet on me.”
He reached over, covered her hand with his. “I would.”
“Yeah, but you’re rich, and soft on me. I’m hoping Lowenbaum can help narrow down the area, but even then…”
She shook her head, ate. The stew tasted every bit as good as it smelled. “The girl? Nineteen, lived at home. Solid middle class. No current boyfriend. Ex is in college in Florida. No animosity between them. In fact, they tried the long-distance thing for almost a year before they drifted apart. Still friendly. She dates a little, but nothing serious. Skates for the joy of it, hoping to join a troupe – started when she was about eight, and fell in love. She’s a regular at the rink, so I have to consider her as a specific target.”
“She stood out,” Roarke said. “Her grace, the look of her.”
“Yeah, she did. Can’t say the same about the first male: Brent Michaelson. Ordinary-looking guy, nothing flashy. But he’s another regular. Not as often as the girl, but regular, routine. Divorced, but years ago. Civil relationship with the ex-wife. Tight with the daughter, enough that they’d all get together for dinner at the ex-wife’s for birthdays and holidays – no drama. He liked to take his grandkids skating now and then. He’s skated for years, nothing fancy. Said it helped him keep in shape, helped reduce stress.”
“And the last?” Roarke said. “The one who was killed while holding his wife’s hand.”
“Yeah. You pay attention. Today’s their anniversary. Five years. They were re-creating their first date. Some people knew they were going to the rink, but from what I can gather not many – it was more a personal thing. And what time they’d be there wasn’t laid out.”
“You see him as random. They all may be, but you’re more certain he was. If one of the others was specific, then potentially two of them were no more than cover, so all would appear random.”