Thankless in Death (In Death 37)
Page 74
“Birdman?”
Eve frowned. “Yeah. Who the hell is Birdman?”
“He transferred from Chicago about six months ago. Callendar went out with him a couple times. Didn’t gel, but he’s okay. And he really knows his sharps.”
“Why isn’t he called Sharpman or Bladeguy?”
“He has a parrot.”
“That explains it. Did you read my morning report?”
“Yeah, and added Mal Golde’s name to the hotel alert. He’s probably sold everything by now, Dallas. Maybe he’ll try to run.”
“He’s not done yet. Let me talk to Feeney, then we’re going to generate a list of everyone he might go for. Relatives, friends, exes, crushes, bosses, coworkers, people who bugged him in school, teachers, doctors, neighbors.”
“It’s going to be a long list.”
“Which is why he’s not done.”
She took the glide up, entered the three-ring circus of EDD. Sanchez’s retribution tie wouldn’t cause a single flicked eyelash among the explosive colors, dizzying patterns, and unrelenting motion.
She turned toward the blissful peace and what she thought of as the blandure of Feeney’s office, stopped when she saw him talking to one of his geeks.
He made a contrast in his dog-shit brown sport coat and industrial beige shirt. His wiry ginger-and-silver hair made its own mini-explosion around his comfortably saggy face.
He swiped something onto a two-sided screen, and the geek responded with a rapid, incomprehensible spate of e-speak.
After a few grunts, Feeney nodded. “Get it done.”
“All over it and back, Captain.”
The geek bounced out on platform airboots.
Eve angled toward the open door. “Hey.”
Feeney sat back, sipped from a mug with a starburst pattern Eve assumed had been made by his wife.
“Hey.”
“I got a couple things. Can I talk to you?”
“You already are.”
“Right.” She went in, and did something she never did. She shut the door.
Feeney’s eyebrows lifted. “Problem, kid?”
“Other than the fuckhole I’m after? Not really. I’d like to borrow McNab if you can spare him. I’m trying to track electronics the fuckhole took from his vics. He’s been scattering his loot over lower Manhattan, heavy on the West Side. We’re generating a route map. If we pin the electronics, it may give us more.”
“The boy’s good at juggling. If he can keep his balls in the air, you can have him.”
“Appreciate it.”
“Did his parents, huh?”
“Slaughtered them, then tortured and strangled his ex. He’s a fucking moron, Feeney.” She slid her hands in her pockets, jingling loose credits. “But he’s cannier than I gave him credit for initially. Right now, he’s having the best time of his life. He’s
not going to want to give that up, to give up his good time.”