Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(64)

When her ’link signaled again, Eve stepped back from their chatter.

“Jacoby’s secured, and being transported to a safe house. Officers are with her son now,” Peabody announced. “Nobody’s hit on the nest, as yet.”

“Get me a consult with Mira.”

“If you mean now, Dallas, it’s nearly twenty-hundred hours. She’s not in her office. Do you want me to contact her at home?”

“It can wait.” She already had a good picture of the Mackie dynamics. “Anybody who hasn’t had a dinner break takes one—thirty minutes. We pull the search for the nest at twenty-two-hundred. All officers and detectives report for full briefing at oh-seven-thirty. Until that time, everyone’s on standby.”

“I’ll make the contacts. You’re in EDD? Can you use me up there?”

“I can always use the She-Body,” McNab said.

“Awww.”

“Knock it off.” Eve paced the lab. “We have a target outstanding.”

“I’m running the initials—actually eliminated some lawyers with them. There are so damn many lawyers,” Peabody added. “And paralegals, and ambulance chasers, and disbarred lawyers, and just passed the bar—”

“Keep at it. Take a damn dinner break, but keep at it.”

She paced some more.

“Five strong possibles. Three ranging Twenty-First and Fifteenth, between Second and Third. Two on Third at Eighteenth.”

She turned to Feeney, began to scan the data.

“Two on Lex, between Nineteeth and Fourteenth,” McNab added. “Another two between Lex and Third, one on Twentieth, one on Sixteenth.”

“Two apartments, two townhouses, one loft above retail space.”

“I’ve got two apartments, two townhouses,” McNab said.

Eve scanned the data. “Let’s see the houses first. More privacy, and you’re in control of security. ID on tenants.”

“On screen.” Eve frowned at the first ID shot when Feeney put it up, then at McNab’s. “Not Mackie. Let’s see the others.”

“Zip.” McNab grabbed his fizzy, slurped some. “We’ll move farther south, and east to Second.”

“Wait a minute. The townhouse on Third. Pull that back up, Feeney. Gabe Willowby,” Eve murmured. “Willow, Willowby. Younger said he and the second wife picked Gabriel as a boy’s name.”

Feeney’s droopy eyes lit. “Too fucking tidy.”

“Way too. It’s not Mackie in the ID shot, but look at the data. His height. His age bracket, his eye color.”

“Easy enough to create a dupe ID, one that pops on a search,” Roarke began. “And have another using the same name, that matches your face.” He smiled. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Yeah, I bet. McNab, full level-three run on Willowby.” She pulled out her ’link again. “Cancel dinner breaks. Everyone report back to Central for full briefing. We just caught a break. Send me everything you get,” she said as she turned toward the door. “Conference Room A, as soon as you can.”

Wishing she had Whitney’s elevator bypass, Eve took the glides. And as the wish made her think of Whitney, she tagged her commander—at home—then Lowenbaum, still in Central.

Peabody ran to catch up when Eve hopped off the glide and arrowed toward the conference room.

“What break?”

“McNab’s running a level three on a Gabe Willowby, Third Avenue address. Not Mackie’s face, but same general description.”

“Willowby. That name—I think that name popped on one of my travel runs.” Peabody pulled out her PPC to check as they entered the conference room. “I just need to— Yeah, yeah, Willowby, Gabriel, and minor son, Colt, on the manifest for a shuttle flight to New Mexico in November.”

“Colt? That’s the name of a gun manufacturer. She’s passing as a boy. Get Colt Willowby on screen.”

“That’s not her,” Peabody said when the task was done, “but—”

“Hair and eye color, an easy change. But this kid could be her cousin. Her cousin of the same age, the same height and weight. Run a level three on that ID, use your PPC. I need the comp.”

“What are you doing?”

“Running a face recognition on the kid’s ID—let’s see if anything pops.” As it worked, Eve studied the board, paced in front of it. “He’ll have multiple IDs for both of them. Cashed in his pension, and got an insurance payout for the wife’s accidental death. He could afford them—or a twenty-year vet? He might know how to generate them.”

“More likely the kid could.” Peabody shrugged. “Kids are just quicker with tech, evolving tech, and a teenager’s always interested in fake IDs, ones that’ll pass a level one anyway. Like this one did.”

“Either way, he’d have more than one. Rent the place, do some travel using this one. Other travel using another. If he has an account for his finances, that’s in another. Credit cards, ’link account. Mix it up.”

She spun back when the comp signaled. “There’s the face, and Colt Willowby is actually Silas Jackson, age sixteen, from Louisville, Kentucky. Forget that search, we’ve got them. No, let it run—the more evidence the better—but use the comp now to get me everything you can on the Third Avenue property.”