“Meanwhile, Officer Gil Newkirk’s come in. He’s in the war room.”
“On my way.”
Gil Newkirk wore his uniform well. He had a rock-solid look about him, indicating to Eve he knew how to handle himself on the street. His face bore the same sort of toughness, what she supposed Feeney might call “seasoning.”
She’d met him a handful of times over the years, and considered him to be sensible and straightforward.
“Officer Newkirk.”
“Lieutenant.” He took the hand she offered with a firm, brisk shake. “Looks like you’ve got an efficient setup here.”
“It’s a good team. We’re narrowing the field.”
“I’m glad to hear it, and wish I’d brought you something substantial. If you’ve got some time…”
“Have a seat.” She gestured, joined him at the conference table.
“You’ve got his face.” Newkirk nodded to the sketch pinned to one of the four case boards. “I’ve been studying that face, trying to put it in front of me nine years back during one of the knock-on-doors. There were so many of them, Lieutenant. That face isn’t coming up for me.”
“It was a long shot.”
“I went through my notes again, and I went over to Ken Colby’s place, he was on this. He went down five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He was a good man. His widow, she let me dig out his files and notes on the old investigation. I brought them in.” He tapped the box he’d carried in with him. “Thought they might add something.”
“I appreciate that.”
“There were a couple of guys that popped for me when I was going through it again this morning—going off what you gave me last night. But the face, it doesn’t match.”
“What popped about them?”
“The body type and coloring. And my boy and I, we’ve talked this through some.” He cocked a brow.
“I’ve got no problem with that.”
“I know you’re working the Urban Wars angle, and I remembered one of these guys told us he used to ride along in a dead wagon in the Urbans, with his old man. Pick up bodies. Worked as an MT, then kicked that when he went to some convention in Vegas and hit a jackpot. I remember him because it was a hell of a story. The other was this rich guy, third-generation money. He did taxidermy for a hobby. Place was full of dead animals.
“I pulled them out.” He passed her a disc. “In case you wanted to check them out again.”
“We’ll do that. Are you on duty, Officer Newkirk?”
“Day off,” he said.
“If you got the time and the interest, maybe you could run these through with Feeney, for current data. I’d be grateful.”
“No problem. I’m happy to assist in any way.”
Eve got to her feet, offered her hand again. “Thanks. I’ve got a meeting. I’ll check back as soon as I can. Peabody, Roarke, with me.”
She had to concentrate not to limp, and giving into her throbbing leg, headed for the small and often odorous confines of the elevator.
“Remember,” she said to Roarke, “you’re a civilian, and this is a NYPSD op.”
“That’s expert civilian to you, copper.”
She didn’t smirk—very much—then squeezed herself onto an elevator. “And don’t call the commander Jack. It negates the serious and official tone, and…it’s just wrong.”