Memory in Death (In Death #22)(88)

"Maybe she mixed up the numbers. If you do a random search, utilizing the numbers in any order, then—"

"You're going to stand there, tell me how to do e-work?"

She blew out a breath, dropped into his visitor's chair. "No."

"Thing is, we got too many numbers. At least one extra. So you run a random, taking out any number, or numbers, what you've got, Dallas, is a hell of a lot of accounts."

"Well, shit" was the best she could think of.

"No way to pin it, I can pin the random accounts, but it's going to take time if you want all of them. 'Cause what you're doing this way, is pulling rabbits out of hats."

She drummed her fingers on her thigh. "I'll take them when you get them. Start cross-referencing."

He gave her one of his hangdog looks. "Gonna be a headache of major proportions. Thing is, Dallas, you're getting the data from a woman who was under duress and stress. No telling if she got the numbers she gave you right in the first place."

"Why didn't he make her record them? Write them down. Have some way of being sure she got them right? He's got two million on the line, and he trusts the memory of a terrified woman?"

"People are stupid more than half the time."

It was God's truth, to her mind, but it wasn't helping her. "He's smart enough, allegedly, to kill, remember the details to cover himself for the murder, get out and away undetected. He's smart enough, allegedly, to be on the spot in order to get another woman into a closed establishment, without anyone they passed noticing the abduction. He leaves no trace there either. But he flubs up the main deal? He screws up on what we would be led to believe was the motive for murder? You buy that, Feeney?"

"Well, you put it that way, I'll save my money." He pulled on his bottom lip. "You think she made it up?"

"I think it's a possibility that needs to be explored. You know, it doesn't put a kink in my hose so much as it adds weight to a theory I've been working on."

"Want to walk it by me? Got time, got coffee."

He'd trained her, she thought. She could remember countless times they'd talked through a case, picking over, niggling over the details over bad food and worse coffee.

He'd taught her how to think, how to see, and most of all how to feel an investigation.

"Wouldn't mind, but I don't see why I should have to suffer through that sludge you call coffee. Figure maybe you could share the holiday token I brought you."

She tossed a gift bag on his desk, and watched his eyes light up like Christmas morning. "That coffee in there? The real deal?"

"No point in bringing you the fake stuff if I'm going to be drinking it."

"Hot damn! Thanks. Hey, close the door, will you? Don't want anybody getting wind while I set this up. Jesus, I'm going to have to put a lock on my AC, or my boys will be swarming in here like locusts."

Once the door was safely shut, he moved to the AutoChef to begin the homey tasks of loading and programming. "You know, the wife's trying to stick me with decaf at home. Might as well drink tap water, you ask me. But this..."

He took a long, deep inhale through his nose. "This is prime." He turned his head, sent her a quick grin. "Got a couple of doughnuts in here. Logged 'em in as pea soup so the boys don't get wise."

"Smart." She thought of her travails with the candy thief who continually unearthed her office stash.

She might give Feeney's method a shot.

"So what do you got pointing to the female wit?"

She ran it through for him while he dealt with the coffee, shared his doughnuts.

He listened, sipping his coffee, taking an occasional generous bite out of the glazed doughnut. Sugary crumbs dotted his shirt. "Probability's going to favor the son, if it's a family job. Blood kills quicker. Could be he brought the wife into it, pressured her. Hey, guess what, honey? I just killed Mom. So I need you to say I was in here with you, sleeping like a baby."

"Could've gone that way."

"But woman on woman, that's another hot button." He gestured with the last of his doughnut, then popped it in his mouth. "In-laws add to it. Sick and tired of you interfering, you old bat. Then she throws herself on the son. Oh, my God, there was a terrible accident. You have to help me."

"Doesn't explain the scam, the supposed abduction, or Bobby in the hospital."

"Yeah, it could. You got one or both of your suspects either wanting nothing to do with the scam, or wanting all the cupcakes. The abduction is frills. Maybe just frills. That'd be on her. Trying to put a bow on it. Maybe it goes back, Dallas, like you think. Shit happens when you're a kid, it sticks with you."

She said nothing to that, and he stared into his coffee. Each let the subject of her own childhood slide away.

"You've got to get something on her—or him. Something you can use to put the pressure on. You've got yourself an onion."

"I've got a what?"

"An onion. You've gotta start peeling away the layers."

* * *

An onion, Eve thought. Leave it to Feeney. But it had given her a fresh idea.

She headed to Mira's, caught Mira's admin at her desk, dealing with busywork while Christmas carols played on low. "How's her schedule today?"