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“McNab—”
“Easier, quicker to explain this face-to-face. Give me five.”
He broke transmission on her snarl, which gave her no choice but to finish her snarl at Peabody. “Conference room 426. Now,” she ordered.
She stormed out of her office, through the detective’s bullpen where the kill lights in her eyes discouraged any of her associates from speaking to her. By the time she shoved into the conference room she’d worked up a fine head of steam and only required a handy target to spew it on.
To his misfortune, Feeney strolled in first.
“What the hell kind of division are you running up there?” she demanded. “McNab’s giving me orders now? Hanging up on me? Booking rooms in my name on his own initiative, and . . . and refusing to give me data when ordered.”
“Hold on now, Dallas. I’m an innocent bystander.”
“Too bad, ’cause they’re the ones who usually end up bloody.”
With a little shrug, Feeney rattled the bag of nuts weighing down his pocket. “All I know is the kid tagged me, asked me to swing by here so he could fill us both in at once.”
“I’m primary on this case. EDD was requested to assist and consult. I have not yet formed a task force in this matter, nor have I been authorized by the commander to do so. Until I say different McNab’s a drone and nothing more.”
Feeney stopped rattling the bag, angled his head. “That go for me, too? Lieutenant?”
“Your rank doesn’t mean dick when I’m primary. If you can’t teach your subordinates proper pecking order and procedure, then maybe your rank doesn’t mean dick in your own division.”
He stepped in until the tips of his shoes bumped her boots, leaned in until the tip of his nose bumped hers. “Don’t you tell me how to run my division. I trained your ass and I can still kick it, so don’t you start thinking you can tear a strip off mine.”
“Back off.”
“Fuck that. Fuck that, Dallas. You got a problem with my command style, you spit it out. Chapter and verse.”
Something in her head wanted to explode. Why hadn’t she felt it? Something in her heart was screaming. But she hadn’t heard it. So it was she who backed off, one cautious step. “He drugged her with Whore and Rabbit. He covered the bed with rose petals and fucked her on them until she died. Then he tossed her out the window so she lay broken and naked on the sidewalk.”
“Oh Jesus.” Pity edged his voice.
“I guess it’s been stuck in my throat since Morris told me. I’m sorry I slapped at you.”
“Forget it. Sometimes you catch one that hits you harder than others. You gotta slap at somebody.”
“I’ve got his face, I’ve got his DNA, I’ve got his transmissions. I know the table in the club where he fed her the first of the Whore in drinks that she paid for with her own debit card. But I don’t have him.”
“You will.” He turned as Peabody strode in a step in front of McNab. Both of them had flushed faces. “Detective, did you request permission from the primary to convene in this room?”
McNab blinked. “I needed to—”
“Answer the question.”
“Not exactly. Captain.” He didn’t need to see Peabody smirk to know she did. “I apologize for overstepping, Lieutenant Dallas. I believe the information I have to, ah, impart, is important to the investigation and is better served in person than interoffice transmissions.”
The dull flush burning up his throat was enough to satisfy her. “Then impart it, McNab.”
“Yes, sir.” It was difficult to look stiff and cold while wearing cherry red trousers and a skin-tight sweater the color of daffodils. But he nearly managed it. “In tracing the suspect’s account from the fraudulent source location, I was able to ascertain the name used to register the account. It purports to be a business called La Belle Dame.”
“Purports to be,” Eve said.
“Yes, sir. There is no firm or organization by that name doing business in the state of New York. The address given for the company is, in fact, Grand Central Station.”
“And I’m to be excited about this because . . . ?”
“Well, I kept separating layers and hit on sources for the actual transmissions. The locations they were sent out from. So far, I’ve hit twenty-three spots. All public cyber-cafés and clubs, in Manhattan, Queens, and Brooklyn. So far,” he repeated. “He moves around, sends and receives from ports in public venues. The only e-mail sent or received from that screen address was to and from Bryna Bankhead.”
