Golden in Death(31)

She looked back at the board. “The killer’s a coward. He’s smart, precise, methodical, but a coward. Poison’s a weapon of the weak,” she said, thinking out loud. “A weapon often used by women because they are, most usually, physically weaker than men. And in this case, the poison used was used remotely. So the killer doesn’t need to see the results, doesn’t have to see his target die. There’s no passion here.”

“An interesting term for it, Dallas. Passion.”

“It’s … like pushing a button to end a life. All the work, the thought, the effort went into creating the weapon. But there’s enough emotional distance here so the killer didn’t have to see the weapon work. There’s no explosion, no screams, no blood, no panic, no pleas. He—or she—shipped the package, walked away, and waited for the media reports.”

“An assassination.”

Because it never hurt to have your commanding officer follow your line of thinking, Eve nodded. “It has that lack of heat, yes, sir. But the victim wasn’t a man of political power, or great wealth and influence. He was a good doctor, by all accounts, a good husband, father, and friend.”

Now her eyebrows drew together. “If we go back to test case, Commander, and he was somehow a random target, a surrogate for some sort of actual assassination, why alert Homeland? There’s a brain behind this, and a brain would know releasing a nerve agent would do just that. Why not test it out on some sidewalk sleeper no one would miss, then dispose of the body? Abner generates media because he was a well-respected doctor.”

“You have a point, and I’ll bring that point up in my meeting. The mayor may be relieved with that point. Keep me updated, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir, I will.”

When he left, Eve sat again, put her boots up again, and frowned at the board.

Assassination. It fit the kill in her mind. A true assassin killed without passion, without heat, without regret. But where was the purpose? If she eliminated politics, power, money, religion, what remained?

Jealousy. Revenge.

Either or both, she thought. And either or both would be cold, calculated, and cruel.

Jealousy. Revenge. Both could fester for a very long time. Maybe something deep in Abner’s past had clawed its way into the now.

Calling up his data, she began a methodical search back, beginning with his parents.

What was that saying? The sins of the fathers something something. Well, some believed it.

Father, mother, stepmother, brother, half sister. All living, though none in the New York area. The half sister carried a little trouble along the way. Teenage shoplifting, truancy, underage drinking, possession of illegals. Married at eighteen—Jesus, who did that? Divorced at nineteen (surprise!). But no violent crimes, no major bumps. Just what looked like a long, rough patch that smoothed out in the mid-twenties.

Now a moderately successful writer of children’s books, married, two offspring, and settled in St. Louis.

She combed through his family, moved into his college years, med school years. And heard Peabody coming down the hall.

Her partner carried a fizzy and a tube of Pepsi.

“I thought you might want to switch it up from coffee about now.”

“Yeah, probably. Thanks.”

Peabody sat—gingerly—on the ass-biting visitor’s chair. “I got what you’d expect from the interviews with Louise’s staff and volunteers. People liked Abner. One of the med-van crew even admitted to having a little crush on him. Harmless,” Peabody added when Eve’s eyes narrowed. “He’s in a long-term relationship, was, in fact, throwing a birthday party for his partner at the time of the drop-off. It came off sort of like how I have this little crush on Roarke. You know.”

“Do I?”

Peabody shrugged, grinned, slurped some fizzy. “Abner tried to work in one run a month in the mobile, and none of that crew remembered any issues, any problems.”

“Somebody had one with him.” Eve cracked the tube. “Assassination.”

Now Peabody’s eyes narrowed. “You think it was a professional hit?”

“No. A pro would’ve killed him low-key. Gutted him on one of his runs, slit his throat on his way home one night. But assassination in that it’s target specific for a specific purpose, and contained to that target and purpose. Cold-bloodedly, precisely.”

“But what’s the purpose? We’ve got nothing on motive.”

“There’s always a motive, even when it’s ludicrous, petty, stupid, or just plain crazy. I’m looking at his history. Family, education, prior relationships, business dealings. Something’s in there.”

“Or.” Peabody shot up a finger. “Random specific.”

“What the hell is that?”

“If we follow the crazy, we have somebody, skilled, knowledgeable, who either by accident or on purpose develops this poisonous agent, and decides he wants to try it out. So now he works on a delivery system, then he has to pick a subject for the rest of the experiment. Maybe he knew Abner, maybe he just saw him on the street, decided he’d do. Maybe they struck up a conversation in a bar or Abner’s a friend of a friend’s cousin, but he decided on Abner.”

“Cold-bloodedly,” Eve added.

“Yeah. Like a mad scientist, and Abner’s just a lab rat to him, right? He has to continue his research, note down the subject’s habits, sched ule, familiarize himself with the neighborhood rhythm. It’s all part of the experiment. He ships the package, waits for the results.”