Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(100)

“He’d roll on him, wouldn’t he? Alexander would hand us the goon for a deal.”

“I don’t want to deal, but even with that, once we pick up Alexander, the killer’s in the wind. No way around it. We need to keep any media play of Milo’s arrest down, even out if we can. We spook either of the other two, we could lose them. Let’s put a couple of men on Alexander. If it looks like he’s going to rabbit, we pick him up.”

“I’ll take care of it. Do you think Milo was telling it straight? He doesn’t know the name of the goon?”

“I think the guy spooked him. And I think he didn’t want to know so he could claim, and likely believe, just what he said in there. He didn’t know, so he’s not responsible.”

“He’ll have the rest of his life to think about how wrong he was.” Reo stepped out, compact and blonde, with a hint of magnolia on her tongue. “You wrapped him up so pretty, with a big, fluffy bow.”

“He knows electronics. He knows dick about people.”

“You did some of my job in there. We get to negotiate deals.”

“Just multitasking.”

“Well, in this case, the boss agrees with you. We’ll let the feds go after him on the fraud, if they want to add to his time. Most likely, they’ll give him a pass on it for his testimony on Alexander. When are you picking him up?”

“Not yet. I need his hammer first. I’m working on it.”

“Dallas, the feds may give the hacker a pass, but you can bet they’ll go full throttle after a shark as big and toothy as Sterling Alexander. They won’t quibble about trumping your three murders.”

“I’m working on it,” Eve repeated. “And if I don’t have his VP in charge of murder by tomorrow, I have a contingency plan.”

“I’m all ears.”

“Let’s take it in my office. I want to check on the face match.”

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Reo asked as they walked.

“I just told you I have a contingency.”

“I meant the premiere. Even this job takes a break once in a while.”

“Not exactly, and that’s the contingency.”

In her office Eve ran it through while Reo sat sipping water from a bottle she pulled out of a handbag the size of a baby elephant.

“You actually think he’ll try for you at a red carpet event.”

“I think he’s assured I’ll be there, and he’ll believe I’m off my guard basking in the sparkle and attention.”

“He doesn’t know you, does he? You’re never off your guard, and you don’t bask. Not in sparkle anyway.”

“His perception’s his reality, and it’s boosted by all that media on the flying baby, on Nadine’s interview with me, on the media hype for the event. Mira’s convinced he has to eliminate me in order to gain satisfaction for the job he’s done, and because his level of violence and his enjoyment of it increases with each killing. I can’t argue with it.”

“There’s room for slip ups here, Dallas.”

“There always is, but he’s going to be the one to slip. We take him, we take Alexander. We hand you conspiracy to murder, and a big, fat fraud and embezzlement bouquet you can pick through with the feds.”

“His operatives will scramble, but I expect the feds will gather them up.”

“Milo’s data should help with that. It’s a nice dish to offer the feds. They’ll owe us.”

“You’d think. It doesn’t always work that way, but it’s not only a good case, it’s a nice lever we may be able to pull at some point.”

She looked at Eve’s monitor, the screen split between Yancy’s sketch and a constant scroll of faces. “That’s the guy?”

“It’s what we’ve got. Yancy felt confident, but we’ve been searching for a match for hours without a solid hit.”

“Good luck. I hope you get that hit soon because I’ll have a much better time tomorrow without waiting for some hired killer with a grudge to take a shot at you.”

“I don’t know. It kind of adds a . . . sparkle.”

“Only you,” Reo said with a laugh and rose. “I’m going to check to see if Milo got his lawyer, then—”

She broke off when Eve’s computer beeped.

Facial recognition match, ninety-five-point-eight probability.

“Holy shit! You must be like a lucky charm. If I go to Vegas, I’m taking you with me.”

“That’s him,” Reo agreed, studying the ID photo over Eve’s shoulder. “Clinton Rosco Frye.”

“Age thirty-three, freelance personal security. Yeah, that’s the name for it. He’s not listing Alexander as employer.” She scanned down. “I knew it. See? Semi-pro football. It’s been about eight years, and it’s bush-league, but I knew it. Two years regular army, four years paramilitary Montana Patriots.”

“Straight out of high school into the army. Out of the army into the Montana Patriots, which—as I just looked them up,” Reo said, tapping her PPC, “gets a three and a half on the four-star lunatic fringe scale. Play some ball . . . How do you go from that to personal security to killer?”