Acknowledged. Initiating . . .
“Auxiliary search, same images, same directive, for match with students listed in File Lapkoff-Columbia-C.”
Acknowledged. Initiating Auxiliary search . . .
“Could get lucky there, find him on the short list before Jamie’s halfway to Morningside Heights. Okay. Now when I get the data you’re running, I can add that into the mix and—”
He nudged her aside, tapped a quick series of keys. “It’s finished, a few minutes ago. And yes, we did an upgrade on that system the third week in March. You want a third search, with this data, I take it.”
“Affirmative.”
He ordered the task himself. “I’d say it’s time for more coffee, and I should take myself off to the lab to have mine.”
“We may not need—”
“That’s not the point, is it? I’m not going to let that git beat me. Carry on, Lieutenant, and so will I.”
She got her own coffee, then added both sketches to her board. As her computer worked, she circled the board and considered Roarke’s theory. Hacking or ID theft. A boy had to hone his craft, didn’t he? And a younger version of the man on her board might have made a couple of mistakes. Slipped a little as he learned all the ins and outs.
A little smudge on his juvenile record, she mused. We can add that in, yes, we can. We can add that possibility. Maybe back home, wherever the hell home was.
Sticks close to the truth, she recalled. He’d told Deena he’d had a little brush with the law over illegals. Maybe he’d had them with cyber crimes instead.
She let the computer continue its search and sat with her PPC to run criminal, focus on juvenile offenses, with the data she’d accrued from Roarke and Columbia.
It didn’t surprise her to find so many. The cop in her was more surprised when anyone got through life without a smudge or a bump or a bust.
She began the laborious process of scanning, eliminating, separating into possibles. Once again, she lost track of time, and nearly bobbled her third mug of coffee when her ’link signaled.
“Dallas.” Jamie’s face told her what she wanted to hear. “I’ve got him. I think I’ve got him. It’s a ninety-seven-point-three probability match. It’s from five years back, and he only had a semester and a half in but—”
“Send him to me. On screen, now,” she ordered when the transmission hummed.” She stared at the ID photo. “Good work, Jamie. Shut everything down there, wipe the search.”
“It’s him, isn’t it? It’s the bastard who killed Deena.”
She looked into Jamie’s tired and furious eyes. “You did good work,” she repeated. “We’ll brief in the morning. Go home. Get some sleep.”
She knew he wanted to argue, it was clear on his face. But he pulled it in. “Yes, sir.”
She cut transmission then turned back to the screen to study another young, attractive face.
“Hello, Darrin Pauley. You son of a bitch.”
In the lab, Roarke finessed, twisted, prodded. He’d grabbed the amorphous tail of the ghost and was fighting to hold it. “Do you see it?” he demanded.
On a wall screen, Feeney’s eyes were narrowed to slits. “I’ve got eyes, don’t I? You need to recalibrate the bypass, then—”
“I’m bloody well doing that.” Roarke swiveled to another comp, keyed in another code.
“I can box it from here.” On another screen, McNab paced. “If we ride the back end from here—”
“Keep working the enhance,” Feeney snapped. “I’ve got it.”
“Roarke.”
“Not now!” the order shot out at Eve from Roarke, and from the two males on the wall screens.
“Jesus, wall of geek,” she muttered. Then saw the other image, a shadow on shadows.