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Wishing she had Whitney’s elevator bypass, Eve took the glides. And as the wish made her think of Whitney, she tagged her commander—at home—then Lowenbaum, still in Central.
Peabody ran to catch up when Eve hopped off the glide and arrowed toward the conference room.
“What break?”
“McNab’s running a level three on a Gabe Willowby, Third Avenue address. Not Mackie’s face, but same general description.”
“Willowby. That name—I think that name popped on one of my travel runs.” Peabody pulled out her PPC to check as they entered the conference room. “I just need to— Yeah, yeah, Willowby, Gabriel, and minor son, Colt, on the manifest for a shuttle flight to New Mexico in November.”
“Colt? That’s the name of a gun manufacturer. She’s passing as a boy. Get Colt Willowby on screen.”
“That’s not her,” Peabody said when the task was done, “but—”
“Hair and eye color, an easy change. But this kid could be her cousin. Her cousin of the same age, the same height and weight. Run a level three on that ID, use your PPC. I need the comp.”
“What are you doing?”
“Running a face recognition on the kid’s ID—let’s see if anything pops.” As it worked, Eve studied the board, paced in front of it. “He’ll have multiple IDs for both of them. Cashed in his pension, and got an insurance payout for the wife’s accidental death. He could afford them—or a twenty-year vet? He might know how to generate them.”
“More likely the kid could.” Peabody shrugged. “Kids are just quicker with tech, evolving tech, and a teenager’s always interested in fake IDs, ones that’ll pass a level one anyway. Like this one did.”
“Either way, he’d have more than one. Rent the place, do some travel using this one. Other travel using another. If he has an account for his finances, that’s in another. Credit cards, ’link account. Mix it up.”
She spun back when the comp signaled. “There’s the face, and Colt Willowby is actually Silas Jackson, age sixteen, from Louisville, Kentucky. Forget that search, we’ve got them. No, let it run—the more evidence the better—but use the comp now to get me everything you can on the Third Avenue property.”
“I have that for you,” Roarke said as he walked in. “Already sent.”
“Handy. Peabody, put it up.”
“I also ran a facial recognition on Willowby—who is actually Dwayne Mathias, fifty-three, from Bangor, Maine.”
“That’s cop thinking.”
“And you insult me,” he said, flicking a finger down the dent in her chin, “when I have a dozen pizzas on the way.”
“Pizza!”
Eve gave Peabody and her happy dance a sidelong look.
“Nobody got that dinner break,” Peabody pointed out. “I grabbed a yogurt bar, but that’s it.”
“And hungry cops may be more likely to make mistakes,” Roarke concluded.
“I thought hungry kept you lean and mean. I’m feeling mean.” Eve stared at the blueprints on screen. “But pizza sounds okay.”
Cop thinking, she mused, and he’d done the work faster than she had. Plus pizza. Hard to complain.
“Tri-level duplex,” she observed. “Johns on the first and second only, so I’d say: Keep first level clean—they’re going to get deliveries, don’t want weapons or plans in view—sleep second, use third for strategy sessions, storage. Fire escapes, rear, and potential roof access. Third bedroom on the second floor could be used for work, too. Subway’s an easy walk, or run if you need to run. Bus stop’s convenient. It’s a good location, a good HQ.”
“One that’s showing its age,” Roarke added, “and the effects of poor construction. Willowby rented with an option, and as the asking price is easily fifty thousand dollars over what it’s worth, I’d conclude he didn’t bother to negotiate.”
“He doesn’t plan to buy it.”
“I agree with that. The rent’s low in any case.”
Lowenbaum stepped in, looked at the screens. “You got him.”
“We will.”
