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“Peabody, split the list of potential targets up geographically.”
“Is this the Reinhold murders, Lieutenant?” Trueheart, looking eager, stepped beside Baxter.
“That’s right. We’ve got a list of people who’ve pissed Reinhold off in the past, and any one of them might be next. They’ve all been notified, offered protection.”
“You want us to babysit?” Baxter asked.
“No. His tally’s four, and all were killed in their own homes. I want face-to-face interviews, in those homes, and a full report on the locations, the accesses, the security, the basic rhythm of the households. Also take note of easily portable valuables, keen eye on electronics. If said potentials know of other potentials not currently on the list, I want to know. Show them all the morph. If they have cohabs or family members living with them, show them, talk to them. If he doesn’t already have his next kill picked, he’s picking one now.”
“How long’s the list?” Baxter wondered.
“Your date’s going to cool off some,” Eve repeated. “If you can’t heat her back up, it’s on you.”
He flashed a grin. “Heating up’s my specialty.”
“Give them above SoHo,” Eve decided. “You and I will take SoHo and down. You get a model, reputedly frosty, as a reward,” she told Baxter.
“Hot dog.”
“Got it, sending to your PPCs,” Peabody announced.
“Full reports,” Eve repeated before turning back to Peabody. “Split up ours. I want to talk to Morris before I work the list. You can take a uniform if you want any help.”
“I’ve got it. Sending your share.”
“Saddle up then. I’m checking in with EDD, then heading out. Anything pops, tag me.”
Eve detoured into her office, grabbed her coat, a file bag, and avoiding even the thought of the elevator took the glides to EDD.
Apparently half of Central had the same idea.
Even braced for the blast of color and movement that was EDD, it rocked her senses before she made it to Feeney’s sane office.
“I’m heading into the field, wanted to touch base first.”
“Juggled you in.”
Since it looked as if he had at least six programs going on his screens, she assumed he was doing considerable juggling.
“You said this asshole flunked Comp Science?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, he learned enough to keep her making the transfers without an easy trail. We’re bouncing, vanishing, popping, then sinking. I’m saying offshore and off-planet, at least for the bulk, but we’re not there yet. I’m saying, too, he’ll go numbered and/or sheltered. We’re going to find the money, sooner or later, but we may not get an ID out of it any time this decade.”
He sent her a look out of basset hound eyes. “Not shooting straight anyway.”
She jammed her hands in her pockets. “I don’t want to give him so much as a rat hole for his lawyers to shove him through once we’ve got his sorry ass.”
“Some are good enough shooting angles not to make a rat hole. Not that I’m saying that’s the way.” He lifted his shoulders. “Roarke’s heading in.”
And he knew every angle. Had probably invented some. “He likes to play with his nerds.”
Feeney only smiled. “We can use him. I’m going to move into the lab once McNab gets back with the comps. I can run some of this on auto, for now. We may have quicker luck with the equipment.”
“Let me know when … That was quick,” she said when Roarke strolled in.
“Some luck with traffic.” His elegant dark suit and topcoat stood in contrast to the frenzy of color through the doorway behind him. He glanced at the screens, a quick scan with those wild blue eyes. “Ah, multishifts, cross-funnels, lateral dips.”
