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She did her best to ignore the faint buzz of the suture wand, the vague and persistent discomfort of her skin drawing back together.
“The pattern comes through,” she continued. “The victims represent wealth, position, indulgence, the weapons unusual and showy, the kill sites public and risky. In both cases false ID was utilized, and sprang from one of the companies run by these men. An outside hack is, of course, possible, but it feels like an inside job. It plays as one.”
“And Mira’s profile?”
“They both fit. The interview
s, sir? It felt like theater, in both cases. Rehearsed, with each taking a specific type of role. They’re arrogant and smug, and enjoying the fact that they’re in the middle of this. We have an additional piece of evidence from a partial image EDD was able to enhance from the Coney Island security. From it, we can estimate the height of the killer, and we were able to identify the designer and model of his shoes, and the approximate size. It’s made by Emilio Stefani—”
As he bandaged, Carver let out a low whistle. “Those’ll cost ya.”
“They retail for three thousand, to confirm Carver’s statement. Dudley bought a pair of that shoe, in the color and the size we have, in March. Only one other pair was purchased in the city, in that color and the size Detective McNab ascertained from the security image. That individual is currently in New Zealand, and at the time of the murder was on a location shoot for a major vid. That leaves Dudley.”
“That’s good, but it won’t get you an arrest warrant much less a conviction. If you’re set on this line of investigation, get more.”
“I intend to, sir.”
“You’re all set.” Carver rose. “Want a pain pop?”
“No, I don’t want a pain pop.”
“Your choice, but it’s gonna ache for a while. I can take a look at it for you tomorrow, change the dressing. You should only need me to slap some NuSkin on it by then.”
“I’m fine. It’s fine.” Relieved it was done, Eve got to her feet.
“Thank you, Carver.” Whitney sat back as the medic tapped a finger to his temple as salute and left.
“If the bayonet was military, and you’ve got the era, check to see if either of your suspects had an ancestor who served, and would have been issued the weapon, and push on the crossbow. One or both of them could be licensed.”
“If Moriarity used the bow, as I believe, he’s practiced. Even at that distance, he had to be confident in his shot, first time. The second killing runs the same. It was dead in the heart, which kept the bleeding light, reduced the spatter. They took time to work on their skills, or already had those skills.”
“Get more,” Whitney repeated. “And take care of that arm.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Recognizing the dismissal, Eve walked out.
As she made her way back to her office, she started the search on her PPC for the military connection. That was a line she’d missed, she admitted, and shouldn’t have. It might have something to do with being up for around forty hours, but reasons weren’t excuses.
Once again, the shift was changing as she passed through the bullpen. She spotted Baxter just pushing back from his desk.
“Here early, here late. What have you done with Baxter?”
“Ha ha. Just finished the case from this morning. PA dealt it down to Man One, but it’s closed. Report’s on its way to you.”
“Good enough.”
“Sent the boy home. He’s still dating the cutie in Records. But we’re clear if you need more hands on your double.”
“I’ll let you know.”
“Heard you took a little slice,” he said with a nod toward her arm.
“Word travels.”
“Oh, and I sent you the monthly eval on Trueheart. He’s going to make a good detective. Needs a little more time, but if you give me the green light, I’m going to tell him to start boning up for the exam.”
“That’s a pretty fast track, Baxter.”
“He’s quick, unless you’re talking about with women.” He grinned at that. “He’s got good instincts, and he thinks things through. Plus, the kid’s got me for a trainer. How can he lose?”
