She moved into the cab of the vehicle, using
a penlight to search under the seats, under the dash, hoping for some little mistake. A candy wrapper, a go-cup, a scrap of anything.
Finding nothing, she sat back on her heels, studied the dash. She checked the log, ran the last outgoings.
Base, this is Mormon with Drumbowski, Unit Seven, confirming pickup at East Side Metro Transportation Center of Parzarri, Chaz. Sheet shows private shuttle from LVI, tail number Bravo-Echo-Niner-Six-Three-Niner.
This is base, confirming. Advise when you’re loaded and en route for return.
Roger that Unit Seven out.
As she listened, Eve tapped her fingers on her knee.
Base, Unit Seven, loaded and running.
Copy that. Condition of patient?
Stable. He ran through what Eve assumed was an acceptable range of blood pressure, pulse, other vital signs, then signed off.
Peabody opened the side door. “McNab’s looking now. Sweepers and the meat wagon on the way.”
“Has to be the hacker,” Eve said, as much to herself as Peabody. “The driver. He’d have to know who was on, the unit number assigned to the pickup, the basic give and flow of how they communicate. Hack into the hospital system, get the log, listen to a few runs. Hospital dispatch isn’t expecting a hijacking. They’ve got no reason to push the communication. It’s all A-fucking-OK.”
She marked the communication center for EDD. “And now we have his voice print. Stupid asshole. I want to see if EDD can enhance as well as print. See if they pick up any chatter from the back.”
Peabody nodded as she texted the instructions. “Do you have a line on COD?”
“Smothered him. Strapped him down, covered his mouth, pinched his nose. The bruising’s like a signpost for it. Face-to-face this time,” she considered. “They knew each other. It’s more personal. Still business, just doing the job, but it’s like firing a coworker. It’s got that personal element. I want this area secured. We need to find Jake Ingersol.”
“You don’t think—”
“I didn’t think they’d kill the accountant.” She shoved at her hair. “Listen, I’ll find out where Ingersol is. You contact Gibbons. He should know Parzarri’s dead. And we’re going to have the media hum this time, as soon as they put together that two accountants from the same firm were murdered within days of each other.”
“Not much we can do about that.”
Maybe a preemptive strike, she thought. And wondered if she could squeeze in enough time into coaxing, maneuvering, or bribing Nadine into spinning the story as she needed it spun.
She contacted the WIN offices as she drove. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. Is Jake Ingersol in?”
“All three partners are meeting at the new offices this morning, Lieutenant. Do you need the address?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Would you like me to contact Mr. Ingersol and tell him you’re hoping to speak to him?”
“No, don’t bother.”
As she drove back across town yet again, she heard Peabody murmuring condolences to Gibbons, and skillfully, she’d give Peabody the chops there, evading direct answers on the murder.
“Set me up another consult with Mira, will you?” she asked Peabody when her partner ended the conversation. “Her admin’s less likely to try to fry out your eyeballs over the ’link. I need some direction on these assholes.”
She rubbed at the back of her neck, thinking of Parzarri, strapped down on the gurney, watching his killer’s face as he smothered. Twisting, struggling, helpless.
He’d been dirty, that was clear to her. But not a killer. Or he hadn’t had the opportunity to decide if he could or would take part in the murder of his coworker. He’d never known.
Now, he was dead because she hadn’t anticipated, she hadn’t seen the logic in killing him, in eliminating what must have been a valuable cog in the wheel.
Maybe she should’ve taken Roarke up on that trip to Vegas, confronted him then and there. Or met the damn shuttle instead of going to the hospital.