“What does that tell us?” Eve scanned the room. “It tells us one thing we didn’t know about him before.”
“He’s a coward,” Peabody said, and gave Eve a quick, inner glow of pride.
“Exactly. He doesn’t, as we believed, confront his victims, doesn’t risk a public struggle, even with the aid of a drug. He uses guile and lies, the lure of money or advancement or the achievement of a personal goal. He has to know them well enough to use what works, or has the greatest potential of working. He may have spent more time observing and stalking each vic than we previously supposed. And the more time he spent, the more chance there is that someone, somewhere, saw him with one or more of the victims.”
“We’ve been shooting blanks there,” Baxter reminded her.
“We go back, interview again, and ask about men the vics spent time with at work, who may have taken one of their classes or talked about doing so. A month ago, two months ago. He wouldn’t have been back since he abducted them. He’s done with them; he’s moved on from that stage. Who used to hang out at these locations, or frequent them who hasn’t been there in the last week for York, the last three days for Rossi.
“McNab, dig into Rossi’s comps, find me a new outside client. Roarke, names, addys, place of employment on everyone on your list who feels like she fits. Feeney, keep at the Urban War angle. Body identification, comments, commentaries, names of medics officially assigned, of volunteers where you can find them. I want photos, horror stories, war stories, editorials, every scrap you can dig up. Baxter, you and Trueheart hit the street. Jenkinson, you and Powell stay out there, find somebody whose memory can be jogged.
“Write it up, Peabody.”
“Yes, sir.”
She started out, and Feeney caught up with her. “Need a minute,” he said.
“Sure. Got something?”
“Your office.”
With an easy shrug, she kept going. “Heading back there. I want to go through the cases between the first and this one more carefully, start calling names on the original interview lists. We just need one break, one goddamn crack, and we can bust it. I know it.”
He said nothing as they wound through the bullpen, into her office. “Want coffee?” she asked, then frowned as he closed the door. “Problem?”
“How come you didn’t come to me with this?”
“With what?”
“This new theory.”
“Well, I-” Sincerely baffled, she shook her head. “I just did.”
“Bullshit. What you did was come out as primary, as team leader, you briefed and assigned. You didn’t run this by me. My case, you remember? It’s my case you were using out there.”
“It just popped. Something York’s boyfriend said clicked on a new angle for me. I started working it and-”
“You started working it,” he interrupted. “Going back over my case. A case where I was primary. I was in charge. I made the calls.”
Because the muscles in her belly were starting to twist, Eve took a long, steady breath. “Yeah, like I’m going to go back over the others. They’re all part of the same whole, and if this is an opening-”
“One I didn’t see?” His tired, baggy eyes were hard and bright now. “A call I didn’t make while the bodies were piling up?”
“No. Jesus, Feeney. Nobody’s saying that or thinking that. It just turned for me. You’re the one who taught me when it turns for you, you push. I’m pushing.”
“So.” He nodded slowly. “You remember who taught you anyway. Who made a cop out of you.”
Now her throat was drying up on her. “I remember. I was there, Feeney, from the beginning when you pulled me out of uniform. And I was there for this case. Right there, and it didn’t turn for us.”
“You owe me the respect of cluing me in when you’re going to pick my work apart. Instead you roll this out, roll it over me, and you push me off on some bullshit Urban Wars research. I lived and breathed this case, day and night.”
“I know it. I-”
“You don’t know how many times I’ve dug it out since and lived and breathed it again,” he interrupted furiously. “So now you figure it’s turned for you and you can rip my work to pieces without so much as a heads-up.”
“That wasn’t my intent or my purpose. The investigation is my priority-”
“It’s fucking well mine.”
“Is it?” Temper and distress bubbled a nasty stew in her belly. “Fine, then, because I handled this the best I know how-fast. The faster we work it, the better Rossi’s chances are, and right now they’re about as good as a snowball’s in hell. Your work wasn’t the issue. Her life is.”
“Don’t tell me about her life.” He jabbed his finger in the air toward her. “Or York’s, or Dagby’s, or Congress’s, Waters’s, or Weitz’s. You think you’re the only one who knows their names?” Bitterness crackled in his tone. “Who carries the weight of them around? Don’t you stand there and lecture me about your priorities. Lieutenant.”
“You’ve made your viewpoint and your feelings on this matter clear. Captain. Now, as primary, I’m telling you, you need to back off. You need to take a break.”
“Fuck that.”
“Take an hour in the crib, or go home and crash until you can shake this off.”
“Or what? You’ll boot me off the investigation?”
“Don’t bring it down to that,” she said quietly. “Don’t put either of us there.”
“You put us here. You better think about that.” He stormed out, slamming the door hard enough to make the glass shudder.
Eve’s breath whistled out as she braced a hand on her desk, as she lowered herself into her chair. Her legs felt like water, her gut like a storm inside a violent sea.
They’d had words before. It wasn’t possible to know someone, work with someone, especially under circumstances that were so often tense and harsh, and not have words. But these had been so biting and vicious, she felt as if her skin was flayed from them.
She wanted water-just a gallon or two-to ease the burning of her throat, but didn’t think she was steady enough to get up and get it.
So she sat until she got her wind back, until the tremor in her hands ceased. And with a headache raging from the base of her skull up to her crown, she called up the next file, prepared to make the next call.
She stuck with it for two hours solid, with translators when necessary. Needing air, she rose, muscled her window open. And just stood, breathing in the cold. A couple more hours, she thought. In a couple more, she’d finish with this step, run more probabilities, write up the report.
Organizing data and hunches, statements and hearsay, writing it all down in clear, factual language always helped you see it better, feel it better.
Feeney had taught her that, too.
Goddamn it.
When her communicator signaled, she wanted to ignore it. Just let it beep while she stood, breathing in the cold.
But she pulled it out. “Dallas.”
“I think I’ve got something.” The excitement in McNab’s voice cut through the fog in her brain.
“On my way.”
When she walked into the war room, she could almost see the ripple of energy and could see Feeney wasn’t there.
“Her home unit,” McNab began.
“Fell into your lap, Blondie,” Callendar commented.
“Was retrieved due to my exceptional e-skills, Tits.”
The way they grinned at each other spoke of teamwork and giddy pride.
“Save it,” Eve ordered. “What’ve you got?”
“I’ll put it on the wall screen. I found it under ‘Gravy.’ I’d been picking through docs labeled ‘PT,’ ‘PP,’ ‘Instruction,’ and well, anyway. I hit the more obvious, figuring gravy was like nutrition or, I dunno, recipes. What she means is extra-the gravy.”