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“I don’t think I can risk the time, or the energy it’d take to hack through the international red tape. I’ll try to tie it in, talking to the primaries via ’link.”
“If you change your mind, it wouldn’t take more than one extra day.”
She’d like to see where he’d been, where he’d done some of his early work. But she shook her head. “He’s in New York. I need to be in New York. He’s been practicing a long time,” she said half to herself. “Honing his talents. That’s why he can afford to kill close together now. All the prep work, all the research, all the details are in place. He doesn’t have to wait because he’s waited long enough.”
“Practiced or not, the speed is going to make him sloppy,” Roarke stated. “He may be meticulous, he may have honed his talents, but he’s moving too fast for caution.”
“I think you’re right about that. And when he messes up, we’ll get him. When we get him, when I get him in the box and break him down, we’re going to find out there were more. Other bodies, hidden or destroyed, until he got better. Until he could leave them to be found, with some pride. But his early mistakes, he doesn’t want to be embarrassed by them. That’s the emotional reason. The other’s more practical. He didn’t want to leave too many like crimes on the books, draw attention until he was ready to make his splash.”
“I’ve done some research of my own.” Roarke swiveled the workstation aside. “For fifteen months between March of 2012 and May of 2013, a man named Peter Brent murdered seven police officers in the city of Chicago. Brent, unable to pass the psych screen to become a member of the CPSD, joined a fringe paramilitary group where he learned how to handle what would be his weapon of choice, a long-range blaster, already banned for civilians at that time.”
“I know about Brent. He liked rooftops. He’d hunker down on a roof, wait for a cop to come into range, and take him out with a head shot. It took a fifty-man task force more than a year to bring him down.”
Understanding, she leaned forward, laid her hands on Roarke’s. “Brent didn’t kill women, he killed cops. Didn’t matter to him as long as they had the uniform he couldn’t wear. He doesn’t fit the profile for the prototype.”
“Five of the seven dead cops were female officers. As was the chief of police who he tried, and failed, to assassinate. Don’t hose me, Lieutenant,” he said calmly enough. “You’ve thought of Brent, and you’ve run a probability just as I have. You know there’s an eighty-eight point six probability factor that he will emulate Brent, and target you.”
“He’s not going to go for me,” she insisted. Not yet, she thought. Not quite yet. “He needs me to pursue, so he feels more important, more successful, more satisfied. Taking me out wouldn’t give him the same rush.”
“So he’s saving you for his final act.”
There was no point in dissembling, not with Roarke. “I figure he may have that for a long-range goal. But I can promise you, he won’t get there.”
He took her hand, linked fingers. “I’m holding you to that promise.”
Chapter 16
She’d decided to hang on to Roarke for her interview with Roberta Gable. He would, she considered, provide another set of impressions. The former child-care professional had agreed to speak with Eve as long as the interview lasted no longer than twenty minutes.
“She wasn’t particularly gracious about it,” Eve told him as they approached the small apartment complex where Gable made her home. “Especially when I said we’d be here around six-thirty. She eats promptly at seven, and I was told I’d have to respect that.”
“People of a certain age tend to develop routines.”
“And she called me Miss Dallas. Repeatedly.”
Companionably, Roarke swung an arm around her shoulders. “You already hate her.”
“I do. I really do. But the job’s the job. No snuggling on the job,” she added.
“I keep forgetting that.” Still he gave her a friendly squeeze before removing his arm.
Eve stepped up to the security grid, gave her name, displayed her badge, stated her business. She was cleared so quickly she assumed Gable had been waiting for her.
“I’m going to intro you as my associate,” she said as they walked into the tiny foyer. One look at his gorgeous face, the elegant suit, and the shoes that probably cost more than Gable’s monthly rent had Eve sighing. “And unless she’s blind and senile, she won’t buy it, but we’ll try to brush by that.”
“It shows a definite bias to assume that cops can’t be well dressed.”
“Your shirt lists for more than my weapon,” she chided. “So once in, you keep it buttoned, the lip as well as the shirt, and look firm and stern.”
“And I was counting on shooting you quiet, adoring looks.”
“Burst that bubble. Second floor.” They took the steps, turned into a short hall with two doors on either side.
The absolute silence told her the building had excellent soundproofing, or everyone in the place was dead.
Eve pressed the buzzer beside 2B.
“Miss Dallas?”
