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“Right.” Eve took the ’link, opened communications. Her first impression was of ice blue eyes so sharp they looked able to pierce steel. They beamed out of a cool, attractive face topped with short, straight brown hair.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was brisk, as no-nonsense as the do. “How can I help you?”
Within minutes, the bureaucratic wheels were turning. Eve passed the ’link back to Roarke. “She says she’ll have the data to me within an hour.”
“Then she will.”
“So I guess I better go back to work, and get ready for it.”
Back in her office, she started a match search with the Columbia list and MacMasters’s threat file, and a second for matches with his case files for the last five years. It would take time.
She used it to study the video again.
He’d stopped and started, she judged, a number of times. Each time Deena hesitated or went off script. Patience, focus. He had a message, and he wanted it delivered.
Blame the father, even though it was perfectly clear the victim spoke only under duress. He’d needed the words said. Daughter to father? Was that important? Child to parent? An issue or just the luck of the draw?
No, nothing was luck on this. Every choice deliberate. Direct to MacMasters, with no mention of the mother. Dad, Daddy—not the mother.
Never forgive. Hate. Never know why. Must pay.
Sins of the father? she wondered. Eye for an eye?
She sat, put her booted feet on the desk, shut her eyes.
The killer was older by a few years—maybe more—than the victim. Deliberate target, used to punish MacMasters. Blood kin.
Relative? Son?
Unacknowledged child?
Possible.
The cruelty of the act, the planning, the message sent—all pointed to intense offense. Against killer? Against relative or close connection to killer?
Note: Search MacMasters’s files for terminations, or arrests/wits/vics that resulted in death or extreme injuries. Add life sentences on and off planet.
Personal, extremely personal. This wasn’t business.
She opened her eyes when her unit signaled an incoming. Straightening, she brought up the data. Peach Lapkoff was a woman of her word.
That was the good part, Eve noted. The bad was just how many students at one freaking college managed to lose their IDs.
She needed more coffee.
With more fuel she began the laborious process of whittling down. Even as her unit reported no match on her initial search, she felt the pop.
“Powders, Darian, age nineteen. Lit major, second year. Replacement ID requested and paid for fifth of January, 2060.” She brought up her previous list, eyes narrowed. “And here you are again, Darian, hailing from Savannah. All data on current subject on screen.”
She swiveled, studied his ID. “Good looking guy, big, charming smile. You’re tailor made.”
Eve continued to study and wondered if she could be looking at a killer, or his dupe.
“One way to find out.”
She rose, tugged on the jacket she’d tossed over the back of her chair, then buzzed Roarke.
“Hey, I’ve got an angle I need to check out. I won’t be long.”
