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“Stop it,” she ordered herself, programmed coffee, and sat.
After an hour at the grunt, she’d culled her list down to fifty-six possibles. Those she broke into two groups to start. Those with criminal records—any dings at all—those without.
Logically, the murderous type would have dings, even minor ones. But . . . instinct told her not this time. Following instinct, she was left with forty-three.
She closed her eyes a moment, considered.
Wannabe law enforcement—definite maybe.
Former law enforcement, retired or kicked. Also maybe.
Current? Also possible.
Current, she thought again, would equal easier access to case files. Then again, the UNSUB showed sharp e-skills, so some possibility the files had been hacked.
Separate again, she decided. Wannabes, former, current.
As she worked, Peabody came in. “I might have something. Loreen Messner. She’s . . . Can I?” Peabody asked, pointing to Eve’s computer.
“Go.” Eve angled back, gave Peabody room.
“She lives in Tribeca, so that’s out of the target zone, but—”
“That’s a hunch.”
“Here she is,” Peabody said as the image came on Eve’s comp screen.
“Familiar,” Eve noted. “A little familiar. I’ve seen that face.”
“She just hit the far edges on the facial recognition, but the ID shot’s nine months back—I checked. So maybe she lost a little weight in the face since. Hair’s long, but she could’ve cut it. Brown and brown, five-eight, a hundred-forty-two. She’s a bailiff at the courthouse, so you’ve seen her there. Her father was on the job, went down in the line three years ago. See here, her mother lives in New Mexico, parents divorced. She had the same address as the father, so they lived together. No sibs.”
“Bailiff,” Eve mused, and brought a picture of Messner—in court uniform—into her head. “Yeah, I’ve got her. Okay. Loses the father, the cop, the one who raised her. What happened to the cop killer?”
“Two guys, robbery. Officer Messner pursued on foot, and one of them bashed his head in with a bat, stomped on his face after he was down. The other flipped, got a deal. One went into an off-planet cage, the flipper got two years for the robbery—first offense—and got out in eighteen months.”
“That could piss you off,” Eve stated.
“I did a little digging. She’s been on post multiple times when you’ve testified. Dallas, she was the bailiff on the Jess Barrow trial.”
“That’s a lot of weight. Do you have a location?”
“She’s in court.”
“She definitely needs a talking-to. Print out the picture. Let me finish setting this last search up in case this craps out— Jesus, Santiago and his colorful dice metaphors. We’ll take the shot by the bar and grill on the way, see if they recognize her. This is a good pop, Peabody.”
“Feels good.”
• • •
While Eve and Peabody headed out from Central the woman they hunted for walked in.
She felt good. Resolved. Right. Her coworker’s ID scanned, logged her in as Charis Cannery.
Just a precaution. If the searches they ran spit out her real name, they wouldn’t find her logged in at Central.
She submitted to the body scan, the scan of the evidence box. Nothing would show. She knew how to mask any questionable items from a standard scan.
The timing couldn’t have been more in her favor. Security, just like everyone else, wanted the day over so they could go out, celebrate. And an official ID rang no bells.
