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“They’re related.”
“I’m going with you there. Might be father and kid, or he could be an uncle, but there’s a familial resemblance. Shape of the jaw, eyebrows, mouth. I’ve got more—full body on each.”
“Have you run any face-recognition?”
“Not yet, I wanted to tweak a little.”
“Run now, tweak later. Filter the run on the adult with military or police training. Let’s see what pops.”
“Hang on.” Yancy swiveled to another screen, started the program, added the filters. “You should see the full-body. Even if we don’t release these, it’ll give you a clear sense of build, on both.”
He brought up the next sketches, showing the adult male—broad-shouldered, long-legged. He struck her, again, as someone who’d lost weight, maybe some muscle tone. Not a weak sister, she mused, but due to illness or stress. A little hollow-eyed.
The minor suspect was definitely a more delicate build, but compact rather than gangly. Tough and . . .
“Kid’s fit—there’s a springy look there.”
“Springy,” Yancy repeated. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good word for it. I think— Wow, we got a hit already. I don’t think it’s going to . . .”
He trailed off as the ID image popped on screen. Then let out a deep breath, said, “Hot, holy fuck, Dallas.”
Eyes on the ID shot, Eve gripped Yancy’s arm. Hard. “Hold it down,” she murmured.
“He’s a cop,” Yancy said under his breath. “He’s a goddamn cop.”
“Was,” Eve corrected.
Reginald Mackie, age fifty-four, retired after twenty years on the NYPSD—the last eleven of them in Tactical. Prior to joining the force, he’d been U.S. Army—a weapons expert.
He’d been Lowenbaum’s.
“Send me everything, now. And don’t talk to anybody—anybody—Yancy, about this until I clear it.”
She didn’t sprint away, though she wanted to. Cops observed, and the primary in this investigation running through Central would lead many to the correct conclusion. She h
ad a hot lead.
But she moved fast, yanking out her ’link as she went. “Lowenbaum. My office, asap.”
“I’ve got a—”
“Drop it. Whatever it is, drop it, and move.”
She cut him off without waiting for an assent, contacted Whitney next. “Sir, I need a conference room, and your presence, and Mira’s, as quickly as possible.”
“I’m on my way back from the notification.” He studied her face, and she saw realization come into his eyes. “Twenty minutes. I’ll take care of the room and Mira.”
She risked the sprint on the glides—it wouldn’t be the first time she’d bulled her way up or down them—and contacted Feeney next.
“I need you, Roarke, and McNab if you can spare him.”
She didn’t have to explain, not to Feeney. He only nodded. “Give us ten.”
“My bullpen if you make it in under ten. Conference room—you’ll need to check the log for which one—if it’s longer.”
She clicked off again, stepped into her own bullpen. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. I want everyone who isn’t about to close the case of the decade to prep for a full briefing and op.”
“Yancy hit.” Peabody pushed to her feet. “How sure are we?”
