Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(39)

Eve strode toward the elevator. “They’re trying to make it look random, but they can’t. Because it’s not. We’ll find the link, we’ll find the goddamn link, and we’ll take them down.”

“It’s personal now. Don’t say it’s not,” Peabody insisted. “It’s always a little personal, but this is—”

She broke off when the elevator opened. Two uniforms and a couple of detectives stepped out. All four wore black armbands.

The older of the uniforms nodded to them. “Lieutenant, Detective. Anything you need.”

Eve nodded in return, but said nothing as she stepped in, ordered their level.

Because Peabody was right. It was personal now.

—

Eve split off, headed straight to Yancy’s division. More black armbands—it didn’t take long for the word to spread. She nearly stopped short when she saw the pretty blond standing with Yancy at his desk. Laurel Esty, she remembered, a key witness in a recent investigation. One who’d worked well with Yancy.

Laurel brushed a hand down Yancy’s arm, turned to go. When she saw Eve, she smiled in recognition, then her big eyes sobered.

“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m really sorry about what happened. I just stopped by to . . . Well, I’m just leaving.”

“Okay.”

“Ah, bye, Vince.”

“I’ll see you later.” Yancy looked at Eve as Laurel wound her way out. He wasn’t a blusher like Trueheart, but if he had been, his handsome face would have reddened all the way to his curly mop of hair.

“Um, she was just . . .”

“Leaving.”

“Right. We were going to try to meet up for drinks, but . . .”

“Drinks?”

“Yeah, we’re sort of seeing each other.”

“Not my business.”

“Well, no, but . . . Anyway.”

“I’m a little more interested in the sketches. Your progress there.”

“Right, which is why I canceled the drinks deal. It’s taken me longer than I wanted, and Henry was a hell of a good wit—which is partially why. He gets details—and more of them when I asked if Mira would work with us. She does this cognitive memory thing and he struck me as a good candidate.”

After a glance around, he dragged over a second chair from an unoccupied desk. “I wanted to let it sit an hour, go back and refine, but here’s what I’ve got for you.”

She sat, waited while he ordered the sketches on a split screen.

Eve’s cop gut did a fast dance. “Jesus, Yancy, these are the next thing to photos.”

“Credit Henry. Seriously.”

She’d credit Henry later, but right now she studied the artist/comp concepts of a white male, early fifties, square-jawed, hard-eyed. Not what she’s call a gaunt face, but thin in a way that read illness or loss of appetite to her. Short, not quite military short, medium-brown hair worn in a brushback.

Clean-shaven, tight-lipped, fuller on the top. Eyebrows thick and nearly straight.

She switched to the second sketch.

No more than sixteen, still a little dewy, rounder in the cheeks, softer in the jaw. A mixed-race heritage in the deepness of the eye color, in the soft brown skin tone, in the texture of the hair—black hair in dreads under a ski cap.

But the shape of the eyebrows and jaw—that slightly fuller upper lip . . .

“I lean female,” Yancy said, “but that’s just impression. Could be a boy—Henry leaned boy by the end of our session. Boys can have a softness to them at that age. Male, I’d say no more than fourteen. Girl, maybe up to sixteen.”

“They’re related.”

“I’m going with you there. Might be father and kid, or he could be an uncle, but there’s a familial resemblance. Shape of the jaw, eyebrows, mouth. I’ve got more—full body on each.”

“Have you run any face-recognition?”

“Not yet, I wanted to tweak a little.”

“Run now, tweak later. Filter the run on the adult with military or police training. Let’s see what pops.”

“Hang on.” Yancy swiveled to another screen, started the program, added the filters. “You should see the full-body. Even if we don’t release these, it’ll give you a clear sense of build, on both.”

He brought up the next sketches, showing the adult male—broad-shouldered, long-legged. He struck her, again, as someone who’d lost weight, maybe some muscle tone. Not a weak sister, she mused, but due to illness or stress. A little hollow-eyed.

The minor suspect was definitely a more delicate build, but compact rather than gangly. Tough and . . .

“Kid’s fit—there’s a springy look there.”

“Springy,” Yancy repeated. “Yeah, yeah, that’s a good word for it. I think— Wow, we got a hit already. I don’t think it’s going to . . .”

He trailed off as the ID image popped on screen. Then let out a deep breath, said, “Hot, holy fuck, Dallas.”

Eyes on the ID shot, Eve gripped Yancy’s arm. Hard. “Hold it down,” she murmured.

“He’s a cop,” Yancy said under his breath. “He’s a goddamn cop.”

“Was,” Eve corrected.

Reginald Mackie, age fifty-four, retired after twenty years on the NYPSD—the last eleven of them in Tactical. Prior to joining the force, he’d been U.S. Army—a weapons expert.