Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(12)

With Roarke in his adjoining office, Eve settled down to the routine that was never really routine. Running backgrounds on the victims and witnesses, on staff, running probabilities. She wrote up a comprehensive report, read it over, added more.

Then she sat back, fresh coffee in her mug, boots on her desk, and studied her board.

Why only three? That stuck in her gut. The speed and accuracy said this shooter could have taken a dozen, or more, within minutes. If the motive, as the general rule applied to LDSKs, was panic and fear: Why only three?

And why these three?

The girl in red made a bright target. The color, her youth, her skill, her speed and grace. Maybe a specific target, but all those attributes leaned Eve toward of the moment.

The third victim, part of a couple—and not regulars. Their plans to be on the ice on that day, at that time, not widely known outside a tight circle.

Of the moment again.

But the second victim. The obstetrician, the regular. That rink, that time, that day of the week habitual.

If there had been a specific target, her personal probability index rated Brent Michaelson high.

But it was a big if.

All random?

She rose with her coffee and circled her board, studied the positions of the bodies.

Then why only three?

“Computer, run crime scene security video, back one minute from cue-up.”


Acknowledged . . .

Leaning back on the desk, she watched the skaters, studied the three victims as they moved on the ice. Then the first hit, the second, the last.

Some continued to skate for several more seconds, providing more targets. Others started to panic, rush, and stumble toward the exit, even over the wall. More targets. The two Good Samaritan medicals moved in, providing more targets, easier ones, she considered, than the three victims had been.

But only three, only those specific three.

The shit would hit, of course. The media would ring that gong and the killings would be top of the reports and stories for at least a few days. But take a dozen—kill or injure—that’s top story for weeks.

That goes global.

Three dead meant a good chunk of people would avoid the rink, so possibly a motive against the rink itself. If she’d been holding that laser rifle and had a hard-on against the rink, she might have taken the girl in red, another target, but then she’d have taken out one of the security staff and at least one of the medicals.

“Three taken out,” she murmured, still watching the screen. “Organized, skilled, had to plan this out in advance. So three was the goal. No more, no less.”

She stopped the screen, went back to her desk to read the background on the victims yet again.

When Roarke sent her the list of collectors—in New York, all boroughs, and in New Jersey—with registered weapons that could have been used, she started backgrounds on all twenty-eight of them, searched for connections to the three victims, or the rink itself.

With more coffee, she got halfway through the list before Roarke came out.

“A collector’s license for a laser rifle—any make, model, or year—is twenty-five large.”

“I’m aware.”

“Most of the licenses I’ve been through are to rich dudes. A couple so far grandfathered from a relative. The screening’s pretty thorough, but that doesn’t mean your average violent offender doesn’t slip through.”

“A problem in all areas of life.” Bypassing the coffee, Roarke opted for two fingers of whiskey. “I’ve got your buildings.”

“Already?”

“The longest part of the process was designing a program that met the criteria. After that?” He shrugged, sipped.

“You designed a program?” About half the time, she thought, she could barely operate a program without getting pissed off.

“I did. An interesting experiment.”

“E-geeks are handy. You have the list of potential buildings?”

“I am, and I do. But I thought you’d like a visual. When your office is redone, we’ll be able to do this via hologram, but for now . . .” He set down his whiskey and gestured for her to stand, took her place, tapped some keys.

A slice of Manhattan flashed on screen.

“These are the boundaries you gave me, from the crime scene back to the river, with the north and south streets. And here . . .” He tapped another set of keys, and buildings began to fade away.

“Okay, okay, I get it. High-security buildings eliminated. Excellent.”

“And buildings under four stories.”

“Right. So these building remaining are potential nests. I need—”

“There’s more.” Because he was quick, and she was focused on the screen, he had her pulled into his lap before she could object.

“Working, ace.”

“So am I. What you see are buildings with a reasonably clear sight line to the targets. But—” Keeping an arm around her waist, he keyed in some more. Several other buildings faded off. “I eliminated those with mid-to high-level security. You might need to factor those in at some point, as there are always ways around security, but for now, those remaining are zero to low-level. Apartments, mid-range hotels, SROs, and flops, your occasional studio for dance or art classes or what have you, a couple of office spaces.”

“With low-level available, why risk high? But yeah, better to have them on tap if nothing else pans out. If I could—”