Page 65 of Fury In Death

Like the pretty young thing with a big brain, he’d been a handsome young thing with one. Son of a pediatric surgeon and an actual rocket scientist—still married after more than half a century and now living in Chicago. A sibling, two years younger, still lived in New York, and—very useful—worked as a biotech engineer for Roarke.

She learned Redman had won major science fairs and awards in his youth, had stuck with New York for Columbia, graduated early and with highest honors. Double major for him, too. Biotech and Climatology. Recruited by Banner-Wyst right out of college, though he’d continued his education, getting his masters in both majors.

Married, had a kid, got his doctorate all before he hit thirty.

Made director.

Everything smooth and steady, Eve thought. All good.

Digging, she found he and his wife bought a house on the Lower West Side—good, kid-friendly neighborhood, good schools.

Then, before they moved in, boom.

She sat back a minute, digging back in her own memory. Because she remembered that boom. Yeah, yeah, she remembered. Fresh out of the Academy, in uniform.

Lower West again, the apartment building had been in the Lower West. So they’d bought a house in the same sector—sticking to their own basic neighborhood.

Straightening, she went back to the data.

Following the shock and loss, Redman lapsed into catatonia, unable to speak. There, but not there. Institutionalized, treated. Little to no improvement.

Then, six years ago, had simply poofed.

Missing persons report. Never found, presumed dead.

“But you’re not, are you, Steve?”

After printing out his old ID shot for her board, she pulled up the investigator’s report on the fire. And found Feeney’s name.

She grabbed her ’link, tagged him.

“I know you’re buried, but—”

“Not anymore. The boy and I struck gold. You need him?”

“No, you. Thirteen years ago, Lower West Side, gas explosion, building destroyed, two hundred plus dead, FDNY responded quickly, were able to get a handful of injured out. You were primary for the department with FDNY’s Susan Washington, arson investigator.”

Frowning, he nodded. “Yeah, hard to forget that one.”

“I remember it, too. I was in uniform, green as grass.”

“You were never that green. It plays into what you’ve got going?”

“Yeah, it’s going to. Since you’re clear, I’ll come up.”

“No, I’m coming down. I want to see the board. You’ve worked explosions, fires a time or two. You know what it does to people.”

“Yeah.”

“Get me coffee.”

She got up first to go out to the bullpen and Peabody. “I’ve got something. Feeney’s on his way down. My office.”

“What did you get?” Peabody sprang up. “What is it? A suspect?”

“Yeah.” Eve walked to the board, tapped Redman’s photo. “That’s what he looked like thirteen years ago.”

“Steven Redman. Okay, who is he, why don’t we have a current ID, and why is he a suspect?”