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She’d been a victim once, and wouldn’t be one again. Witness? That was fine, and she intended to grill herself thoroughly. Motive. That one made her sick, and that had to stop.
Routine, she told herself, could be a cop’s best friend. She was counting on it.
She went into the little kitchen, programmed a pot of strong, black coffee. At her desk, she brought up her incomings, saw communication from Mira, from Nadine, McNab, Feeney, another from Cher Reo.
The tough APA inside the stylish shell hadn’t been on the Barrow or Fitzhugh case, but Eve had no doubt Whitney had talked to the prosecutor’s office about the current situation. Reo wanted to be updated, wanted to discuss. And part of that, Eve knew, would be personal.
Unlike Bastwick, Eve hadn’t been able to block or hold off friendships.
Your true and loyal friend, Eve thought as she looked back at the board, at the copy of the message. What did that mean? Did the killer believe the others who’d become friends in her life were false ones?
I’m the only one you can count on, Eve speculated. Look what I did for you.
Yeah, that’s how it read to her.
Though tempted to pull up Mira’s communications first, she opted for potential evidence.
Feeney. Nothing much new, but he’d sent her a full report, including all probability ratios on height, shoe size. He’d even managed to identify the box. Common recycled material, twenty-four-inch square, sealed with standard strapping tape.
And interesting, she noted, he’d been able to find an angle, enhance, and get a readout on a shipping label.
The vic’s name and address in the same block printing as the wall message. Sender’s listed as the law firm.
She’d check it out, but she’d bet heavy that had been more cover. Somebody asks what you’re doing—even the vic? Why, delivering this package to a Ms. Leanore Bastwick from Bastwick and Stern law offices.
Nothing left to chance, Eve mused. Smart and careful.
She moved on to McNab.
Nothing suspicious on any communications. No arguments, no threats, no one, in fact, asking what she might be doing on the day she was murdered. Nor had she volunteered that information in any of her ’link conversations.
He’d logged several communications with clients, with the prosecutor’s office, with the law firm’s internal investigator of ongoing cases.
Eve read them over, looking for anything that set off a bell, uncovered a hunch. And like McNab, got nothing.
Reams of work on her office comp—much of it redacted. Stern wasn’t being that cooperative, but she hadn’t expected him to be. He repped criminals, or at least those accused of a crime.
And he’d already filed a restraint on her home comp, citing attorney/client privilege.
Okay, we’ll play that way, Eve thought, and tagged Reo.
“Dallas, how’re you doing?”
“I’m beating my head against the wall Stern or Bastwick and Stern put up. We’re restricted from full access on Bastwick’s comps, which impedes our investigation of her murder.”
“I know about that. Dallas, attorney/client privilege isn’t bullshit.”
Eve scowled at the screen, and the image of the pretty APA with her fluffy blond hair and deceptively guileless blue eyes. “Come on, Reo, she’s dead. One of her clients may have killed her.”
“Do you have a suspect? Is one or more of her clients a suspect?”
“All of them are.”
“Dallas, if you want me to fight privilege, I have to have cause. Solid cause. What I can and will do is talk to Stern tomorrow, demand he initiate an internal investigation.”
“Great, and if he cut out her tongue, he’s going to lead us right to himself.”
“Dallas.” Reo held up her hands, inner wrists touching. “Tied. But I’m going to do everything I can do, leverage wherever I can leverage, push where I can push. Tell me, do you, the primary, believe one of Bastwick’s clients killed her?”
