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Mooreland retained Swisher to terminate her cohabitation and to sue Lawrence for lost wages due to injuries. She consulted with Keelie Swisher on nutrition and health during her rehabilitation from injuries, and continued to consult until her death.
Lawrence, Jez, would bear another look. Mooreland stayed on the list.
Moss, Thomas. Age 52 at TOD, September 6, 2057. Family Court judge. Killed, along with son, Moss, Evan, age 14, in car bomb explosion.
“Ring,” Eve mumbled.
Moss served as judge in several of Swisher’s trials. His wife, Suzanna, consulted Keelie Swisher. The homicide cases remain open.
“Computer, search and list all court cases wherein Swisher, Grant, served as attorney with Judge Thomas Moss presiding.
Time frame for search?
“All cases.”
Acknowledged. Working . . .
She pushed up, paced. Car bomb. Not the same pattern, not up close and personal like a knife to the throat. But a military assassination technique. A terrorist tactic. So within the profile parameters.
Took a child out that time, too. By plan or circumstance?
She swung back to the computer, considering other health and medical types that might be on the list. Then pulled back. Her unit was going wonky, even though McNab had jury-rigged it. She didn’t trust it to run complex multitasks.
“Dallas.” Peabody came to the door. “I got a pop. I think. Social worker, attached to some of Swisher’s cases. Strangled in her bed last year. Investigators looked hard at the boyfriend, they were having some trouble, but couldn’t pin him. Case is still open. Her apartment showed no signs of forced entry. No sexual assault, no evidence of burglary. Manual strangulation. No trace evidence of anyone but the vic, the boyfriend, and a coworker, who were both alibied up.”
“Who worked it?”
“Ah . . .” She lifted her memo book. “Detectives Howard and Little out of the six-two.”
“Tag them, get everything they’ve got. And check the vic’s data. See if she was on one of Swisher’s cases with a Judge Moss, Thomas, on the bench.”
“You got a pop, too.”
“It’s looking that way.”
Search is complete.
Eve swung toward her screen. “Display. Okay, Moss and Swisher had a lot of business together. We’ll cross these with your vic. What’s the name?”
“Karin Duberry, age 35 at TOD, single, no children.”
“Lieutenant? Sorry.” One of her detectives moved into the doorway. “You’ve got a couple of visitors. A Mrs. Dyson and a lawyer.”
Eve scooped up her hair. She was running hot, she thought, but couldn’t put this off. “Put them in the lounge. I’ll be there. Peabody, do the cross. Work that list for names that have the kind of training or connections we’re looking for. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve dealt with this.”
She called Mira’s office, left a message with her admin when told the doctor was in session. Grinding her teeth, Eve decided she’d have to handle this one alone.
She found Dyson in what the Central cops lovingly—or sarcastically—called the lounge. It was a step up from the Eatery as far as the noise factor, and a step down on the food choices. Which, given the Eatery, wasn’t saying much.
Dyson sat at one of the round tables, her head bent close to Dave Rangle’s. Both of them looked as if they’d seen much better days.
“Mrs. Dyson, Mr. Rangle. I appreciate you making the time to come in.”
Jenny Dyson sat up, sat straight. “I had planned to come today, before I got your message. I’d like to ask you first if there’s any progress in the investigation.”
“We have what we believe may be a couple of good leads. We’re pursuing them. In fact, Mr. Rangle—”
“Dave,” he told her.
