Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(30)

Quiet hotel, no cams, but solid security on the guest room doors. Nobody’s going to stroll in unexpectedly. Just a guy and his teenage kid traveling to New York—who pays attention?

Henry Whipple, she thought—and yeah, that was some luck.

Book the room—bogus ID, but the card used to register has to pass hotel scan, so it’s good bogus. Carry your own bags, come up, lock the door, put on the privacy light, then—

She kept walking through it as she moved to the door to answer the knock, let in a slightly out-of-breath Peabody.

“How did you—”

“Front desk clerk who pays attention. Suspect was traveling with what Henry—front desk—believed was his minor child—teenage type. Not sure on gender. ID’s bogus, but we’ll push on it deeper. Philip Carson, East Washington. Requested this room specifically.”

Eve pulled out her field glasses. “Have a look.”

Peabody moved to the window, looked out. “Wow, it’s a really long way, but yeah, it’s a good view of the rink.”

“Housekeeper’s sanitized the works, but she noticed little dents in the carpet by the window, like a chair and a bipod would make.”

“If this is it, they had to have been here before, had to know they’d have the shot.”

“Henry thought the adult male looked familiar. And we’ve got a description—Yancy’s heading in to work with him. Caucasian male, late forties, early fifties, about six feet, on the thin side at about one-sixty, square jaw, short medium-brown hair. Not sure on eye color, but Henry thinks light—blue, green, gray. And maybe he had a cold, or was getting over something. He looked drawn, was the word. And his eyes looked tired. Wearing a black parka, black ski cap, jeans. Carrying a large metal briefcase and a midsized black rolly.”

“That’s a lot. If Henry’s accurate, that’s a lot.”

“There’s more. The younger suspect, mixed race, medium complexion—Henry claims beautiful skin there—green eyes, black hair in short dreads, about five-five, about a hundred and twenty. Dark green, knee-length coat, green-and-black-striped cap. He said no older than sixteen, but that may be the height, the build, and the assumption this was the adult suspect’s offspring.”

“And if it is.” Peabody handed the field glasses back to Eve. “Well, Jesus.”

“We can’t verify that yet. They booked this room, checked in early evening, carried their own bags up, locked the door, engaged the privacy light. They took some drinks and snacks. One of them might have gone out for food—no cams in this place—or they may have brought in what they wanted. Housekeeper says they were neat—cleaned up after themselves.”

“Wiped the place down, you can bet.”

“You can bet,” Eve agreed. “But efficient housekeeping took care of that anyway. I have sweepers on the way in case, but I don’t expect to find anything. They left about ten minutes after the strikes, claiming family emergency, as they were booked through last night.”

“In case they missed the target, and to give them into the afternoon.”

“They also booked the room over a week ago, so that takes the third vic out of target specific. Add this: They come in, set up. The rink was open, but they waited, spent the night, spent the morning before making the strikes.”

“Okay, yeah, why not finish it? The rink’s a popular spot at night, and well lit. People panic more at night, right? If that’s the only motive, hit at night. But they spent hours in this room. It leans more toward one of the victims being a target.”

“Eat some snacks, maybe watch some screen. Sit there, looking through the scope, thinking about all the people you could end from your perch. The ones walking home, going out to dinner, riding in the back of a cab? They owe their lives to you. That makes you feel powerful.”

Walking back to the window, Eve looked out, hands in her pockets. “They’re alive because you allowed them to live. And they’re all as clueless as ants on a hill. They don’t know all you have to do is step on them. You spent a long time in the night sitting here, thinking about that. Imagining. Anticipating.”

“Which one?”

“The younger. Or if not the younger, it will be.”

“Why?”

“What’s the point otherwise? Henry? He’s solid, and he’s got a sharp eye. I can buy the second suspect may be into the twenties, but no more than that. Henry wouldn’t be that far off—and we’ll see what Yancy has to say when they work together. So why have the young one along? It’s not for the fucking company. There’s a purpose. Here’s how it’s done, kid, and next time it’s yours to do. Or it’s your time. Take your shot.”

Hadn’t that been the way between her and Feeney? Here’s how it’s done, kid. Now do it.

“Henry felt that father/child connection. Maybe that was because that’s what they wanted to project. But that’s often how it plays out with a trainer and a trainee, especially with that sort of age gap.”

“It could go back to pros,” Peabody suggested. “The older pro training the younger, related or not.”

“Yeah, it could. Except when you look at the vics. Just not enough to gain. Michaelson was well-set, but not swimming in it. His practice will go to his godson—and the godson was already coming into the practice. So far I’m not finding any patients who’d want him dead. His ex is remarried and they appear to have maintained civility. He had a good relationship with his daughter—who’d benefit financially, but doesn’t have any outstanding debt or anything that shows. It doesn’t feel like money.”