Echoes in Death (In Death #44)(83)

“He gets solid reviews.”

Eve frowned, turned her head. “Does he?”

“I did a search on that, and more than one said he was the best thing in some crap play. Authentic’s what comes across.”

“He’s got no alibi for any of the attacks. Claims he doesn’t remember and has no record of his whereabouts on the nights of the first two, and claims he was home alone for the last two.”

She rose, scowled at the two-way glass. “He’s white, and L’Page thinks the guy who pushed at her at the gala was white. He’s the right height. But, Jesus, he doesn’t ring. Not for the killer, not for somebody who’d pass information to someone, except in rambling conversation—but that’s a factor. He connects to the Patricks through On Screen, and he’s worked in the Strazza home, but he doesn’t ring. Yet.”

“Baxter and Trueheart just logged in. Olsen and Tredway are coming in.”

“Let’s try for a conference room.”

Something had to shake loose, she thought. But right now the big-ass tree she beat her head against seemed immovable.

“I figured that, so I grabbed Room B.”

“Good. We’ll set it up now.”

Maybe the act of creating a new board, arranging photos, evidence, reports would help shake the damn tree.





17

As Eve finished setting up the board, Peabody stepped out of the conference room. She came back with a couple of pita pockets that smelled iffy at best.

“I’m fading,” Peabody confessed. “I need something more than half an energy bar. You do, too.”

Eve eyed the offered pocket cynically. “What’s in it?”

“Veggie ham, nondairy American cheese, and shredded spinach. Everything else in Vending looked worse. At least it’s sort of hot.”

“Why is there always spinach?” Eve wondered, tried a bite. “It’s terrible.”

Peabody sampled. “Yeah, but still, sort of hot. I’ve lost six pounds.”

“Depend on Vending, you’ll whither away to nothing.”

“That’ll never happen, but I’ve lost six and kept it off for eighteen days and counting.”

“I thought you weren’t going to obsess about the numbers?”

“I like obsessing about the good numbers, and my currently loose pants. It motivates. If I’m not motivated, I’ll eat a bunch of brownies.” She closed her eyes a moment. “Mmm, brownies. Then I obsess about packing on enough to crush McNab’s skinny ass whenever I’m on top.”

Eve slapped two fingers to the corner of her twitching eye, noted Peabody’s innocent smile. “That was on purpose.”

“Just breaking the tension.” Peabody took another bite of the pocket. “But now I so really want a brownie.”

Shaking her head, Eve decided if she had to eat a revolting fake sandwich, she might as well top it off with the terrible cop coffee in the conference room AutoChef.

She was scowling over the first sip when Baxter and Trueheart came in.

“What is that smell?” Baxter demanded.

“Vending lunch,” Peabody told him.

“There ought to be a law.” He walked to the board, stood, hands dipped into his pockets, studying. “L’Page and Burroughs—possible targets?”

Eve forced down more coffee. “That’s right.”

“We’ve got two of those.”

“Put them up.”

Trueheart stepped up to do so while Baxter took a harder look at the most recent crime scene shots.

“Having a real party now. Escalating from target to target, but killing Strazza’s opened up a whole new world for him. He killed the male first?”

“ME has confirmed, yes.”

“Bigger threat—and having Strazza get loose, to go at him? Spooked and pissed. But if he can work up the balls, he’ll do the female first next round.”

Eve nodded, following Baxter’s reasoning. “Watch me kill your wife. You can’t stop me, can’t protect her. I’m a bigger, better man than you.”

Trueheart cleared his throat—his substitute for raising his hand. “Slitting the male’s throat? It’s quick, eliminates any potential threat. But it’s also messy. I think he liked the mess. It desecrates the bedroom. The victims’ private space.”

“And adds to the staging,” Eve agreed. “We can—”

She broke off as Olsen came in with her partner. Something tugged at her memory when the male detective—narrow shoulders in a tired-looking glen-plaid sport coat, lanky legs like skinny pipe cleaners in brown trousers—walked in.

His dark hair was cropped close to his skull, and his eyebrows formed sharp, inverted Vs over hazel eyes. He wore a single gold stud in his left earlobe.

Then it clicked.

“Tredway. It’s been a while.”

“It has. What, six, seven years?”

“About. Detective Tredway and I worked a murder together some time back,” Eve explained.

“Back when Feeney was your LT. Vic was one of my weasels, so Feeney brought me in. We got the bastard.”

“Still in a cage.”

“And now you’re the LT.” He crossed to the board, shook his head. “Better you than me. These potential targets?”