“And he knew the layout,” Roarke added. “Of the park, and its security.
“But he missed just a nanosecond. Going into the spook house. Switching from jamming the outer cam and the inner. We’ve got a piece of him.”
She saw the partial profile, the shoulder, the side of the body as the killer stepped in, one hand lifted, palm on the back of the white dress Crampton had worn, the other in his pocket.
“Just the face, enhance it.”
McNab ordered the computer.
“Facial hair—you catch the side of a beard. Wearing the hair long. Looks heavier than Urich. A few pounds. It’s not him, but from what we can see there’s enough resemblance to his ID shot to have fooled her. She’s expecting this guy, and he’s likely told her what he’d be wearing, maybe how he’d grown the beard, the hair, gained a little weight. She saw what she’d been prepped to see. How much more can we get from this?”
“I’m working on a composite. We can get a solid spec from this. We’ve got the shape of his face, part of one eye, basic jawline.”
“The beard’s going to be fake. He’s got to convince her he’s Urich, so he’s got to have something to mask some features. Get me a composite with and without.”
“On it.”
“Tiny little mistake. He’s excited, and he slipped up, just a little bit. He’s going to be about Urich’s height. Could be wearing lifts, but he’s going to be about his height. He could be wearing some padding to add weight, but that doesn’t play for me. He’d want to be as close to Urich as possible, so he’s a little heavier, carries more pounds. Give me the shoe.”
McNab blinked, shrugged. “Okay.”
“Enhance.”
She narrowed her eyes. “They’re—what do you call them—loafers. Dark brown, look expensive. Let’s get a make on them.”
“Taught her everything she knows,” Feeney said to Roarke. “Nice play.”
“He likes good shoes,” Eve continued, “and he can afford them. Why wear expensive shoes to a murder at an amusement park?”
“Not everyone is as dismissive of good footwear as you, darling.”
She turned a beady eye on Roarke. “No darlings from civilians. Sneaks or skids make more sense. You can move faster if you have to. It’s Coney freaking Island. It’s a playground. But he wears good shoes. He’s vain, and he likes expensive, exclusive. Or maybe he’s just used to them. He’s going to kill her, but he wants her to notice he’s got good taste and the dough to float it.
“Keep at it,” she told McNab. “I need a minute with you.” She crooked a finger at Roarke as she walked out.
When he’d followed her out, Roarke wrapped a light grip around the finger she’d crooked. “Try to remember I’m your husband, not a subordinate.”
“Jeez, sorry. If I’d thought of you as a subordinate I’d probably have told you to get your ass out here. Or words to that effect.”
“Most likely true. Still.” He gave her finger a quick squeeze. “Let’s have a walk. I’m hungry.”
“I don’t—”
“If I have to settle for something from the pitiful vending choices around here you can walk and talk.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as he turned down a corridor toward the pitiful vending choices. “While you’re at it, remember you’re the one who jumped on board with this.”
“I’m well aware.” He stood in front of one of the machines, scowling at the offerings. “I suppose the crisps are the safest.”
“Just use my code. It’s—”
“I know what your code is.” He ordered five bags.
“Jesus, I guess you are hungry.”
“You’re having one, and you’ll toss one to Peabody. The others are for my lab mates.”
While the machine, which was never quite so cooperative with her, jingled out the data on the soy chips, Roarke studied her. “What do you need?”