Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(31)

“Sex is always a good one.”

“Nothing to indicate he had any serious partners there. All that holds, as far as we know, for Wyman. So, we keep looking.”

“Yeah, I’m hitting the same, on Wyman. Just no gain to killing her. Nobody disliked her, knew of anyone who did, or hit on her hard enough to have a thing.”

“Well, somebody had something on her or Michaelson.”

Once again Eve went to the door to answer the knock, and let in Lowenbaum.

He walked in, black coat wet with sleet, pulled off his ski cap.

“I meant it about the horses.” Contemplatively chewing his gum, he scanned the room. He carted in a large, locked case. “The guy at the desk went white as a sheet when he saw this.” Setting the case on one of the beds, Lowenbaum tapped it. “After I badged him, he told me the man who was in this room had one just like it.”

Fucking bingo, Eve thought again. “I don’t know the horses, but maybe I’ll lay some on tonight’s Knicks game.”

“Your man bought the Celtics, didn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Chill.” Still scanning, Lowenbaum unlocked the case. “Decent room, decent place. He could’ve gotten a flop a lot cheaper, done the job. Longer odds us nailing that location.”

“He wasn’t alone.”

Now Lowenbaum looked up. “Is that so?”

“Younger—undetermined gender. Desk guy thought teenager, but we can’t narrow it there yet.”

“Changes things.”

Eve stepped closer as Lowenbaum opened the case and began, with quick, practiced efficiency, to assemble the weapon.

“How much would that weigh? Case included.”

“A solid fifteen, with the extra batteries.” He took out the bipod, tapped a button, telescoped it out.

“First window right of the bed,” Eve told him. “The housekeeper saw the depressions left in the carpet from the bipod, and from a chair.”

“You’re shitting me now.”

“Truth. They’re observant here at Manhattan East. And the window opens, about five inches from the bottom.”

“Handy.” After setting the bipod in front of the window, Lowenbaum retrieved the rifle, secured it. “Thanks,” he said when Peabody brought over a chair.

He sat, looked through the scope, made some adjustments, walked the chair over a half inch. “Pick ’em off like flies,” he murmured.

“You could make the strikes from here?”

“Yeah, I could. I’ve got another two on my squad I’d count on to make it, and another three who’d at least wing the targets from here.”

“Moving targets,” Eve reminded him.

“I could, the two on my squad could. Moving targets, let’s give the other three a fifty-fifty at this range. Take a look.” He got up from the chair; Eve took his place.

The scope made her field glasses feel like a toy. She studied the empty rink, the barricades, made her own adjustments to widen the field, and watched gawkers taking photos of the rink.

She put a woman with a blue pom-pom cap and scarf in the crosshairs.

Powerful, she thought again.

“Makes me feel I could make the strike, but that’s not factoring in wind, temps, and all that other crap. Could the younger guy have been here to do those calculations?”

“You have a weapon like this, and you have the skill, you do your own. It’s almost innate. And it’s . . . you’ve got to say intimate. You and the weapon, I mean. You and the target, that’s not.”

Nodding, Eve rose. “You’d verify this is the location?”

“I would, but why not use the toys we’ve got to lock it down.”

He sat again, took out his PPC. “I can plug in this location—the exact position of the weapon, the exact position of the targets, and do a reverse calculation.”

“You can?”

“I can now because on my way in I had a conversation with Roarke about doing that using this new program. I figured, why the hell not ask the guy who came up with the program—more advanced than we’ve been using—and give it a try?”

“I should’ve thought of that.”

“Then you wouldn’t need me. Give me a sec.”

While she waited, Eve jerked a thumb at the door for Peabody to answer. “If that’s the sweepers, tell them we’ll be ready for them in a minute. Have them hold.”

“Another sec,” Lowenbaum told her. “It’s a lot of tech for me. Your genius was heading into a meeting—maybe he’ll buy the Mets—or I’d tag him again, see if he could do it by remote. But I think I can . . . Okay, okay, there it goes. And we have a ninety-five-point-six probability on this location.”

He handed Eve his PPC so she could see the results.

“That’ll be handy in court when we bag the bastards.” He took the PPC back, put it away. “My work is done here. I’d like to see these assholes. You’re going to shoot me the security feed?”

“No cams in the place.”

“And the lucky streak dies.”

“But I’ve got a solid description, and Yancy’s coming in to do sketches.”

“And rides again. Give me the basics,” he said as he began to disassemble the weapon as efficiently as he’d assembled it.