Obsession in Death (In Death 40)

“The report says only one stun stream fired.” Feeney nodded. “You’re on the job, you know you don’t stop with one until all targets are down.”

“Damn straight. One more? Crappy shot. Seriously crappy. Maybe she misses on the stream because she was taken by surprise. But we’re only talking about ten, maybe twelve feet. The other two vics were stunned close-range—Hastings even closer than the two DBs. Face-to-face, so it says not only a yellow-belly but a seriously crappy shot to me. That’s the risk, maybe. And still, the wit didn’t have that much of a lead. If she’d gone after the wit, she’d have had her. Odds are. What cop wouldn’t take those odds?”

“Probability is no police training. No street time anyway. Maybe a desk jockey. More probable a wannabe or a civilian.”

“Or both. Somebody in the loop, Feeney, because unless you read my report on Ledo, you wouldn’t know we’d gotten physical.”

She grabbed a couple of almonds herself, paced and circled. “Bastwick, all that was public fodder. Bastwick herself made it clear she had a problem with me, played up a personal feud.”

“And Bastwick came first.”

“Yeah. Yeah. That’s the easy one. Get your feet wet with that one. Ledo, it’s more personal. It’s saying, isn’t it, I know what went on, and I’m paying him back for you. It’s deeper than Bastwick.”

“Ledo’s the easier kill, but Bastwick’s more general. Yeah, it’s Mira territory, but I get you. Had more to say after Ledo, too, so you got your escalation. Both scenes clean as my aunt Crystal’s front parlor—trace-wise—so I’m with you on law enforcement, especially adding in the data the public didn’t know.”

“Then Hastings. I actually like him, in a twisted way. Plus, sure, we went a round, but I always had the upper hand. Even more, he was cooperative once he simmered down, and I showed him the pictures of the vics. He was actually instrumental in our ID’ing Gerry Stevenson. But . . . the altercation was all in the report.

“Who the hell reads the reports? Shouldn’t be anyone not directly involved.”

“But.”

“Yeah, but somebody with the right credentials could access them. I did a standard search on that and came up with nothing much. Any way to dig deeper there?”

“I can look at it. But,” he said again. “Right ID gets you into Records easy enough. Or you hack in, if you’re good enough and interested enough. She’s interested enough, and shows some e-chops.”

She sat on his desk. “Anybody spring to mind? Any of your techs, anybody new, any of the e-support? You use outside consults off and on.”

“Squeaks, sure. Civilian geeks. Hell, Roarke’s the top squeak around here.” He scr

ubbed at his wiry hair. “I’ll do some digging there, but nobody pops for me. Then again, some of my kids use squeaks I’m not real familiar with. Wannabe, that’s how it reads all around. Wannabe cop, wannabe vigilante, wannabe your number one pal.”

“Maybe not so much on the pal anymore.”

“Pissed at you,” Feeney agreed. “Whiny bitch on top of it.”

“Which takes her right out of contention for any pal of mine. But it’s pals I’m worried about. I don’t want to insult you.”

“Better not.” Casually, he recrossed his ankles. “I outrank you.”

“You were my trainer, my partner. You’re—” The closest thing to a father she’d ever had. But that was too sloppy and sentimental for both of them. “You’re a pal. When I put myself in her head, I ask myself who’d be the target that would pay me back most? Who would I want to bump aside so there’s room for me as Dallas’s—what’s it?—BFF? I come up with Mavis right off. Oldest friend, and a civilian. But there’s you, Feeney, and Peabody.”

“Roarke’s not your pal?”

“She’s not good enough to get to him. And that’s insulting, and I don’t mean it that way. He’s covered, is what I mean. My sense is she’s too cowardly to take on a cop, but . . .”

He took a handful of almonds now, leaned back as he studied Eve, popped one into his mouth. “An old cop, a geek, a desk jockey? Pretty easy pickings?”

“In her head, Feeney, not mine. Old, my ass.”

“I feel the years more than I used to, but I’m no easy pickings.”

“I know it. She may not. I’m just telling you how I see it, and asking you to be on guard. She’s going to go after somebody I care about. If not the next hit, soon enough unless I stop her.”

“She’s working chronologically, so far. If you had to pull it out of your hat, who’d be next in line? Not a pal.”

“Ah, hell, Feeney. I couldn’t count them.” Even the idea had her scrubbing her hands over her face, pressing her fingers to her eyes. “Jesus, I’m going to have to read through all my case files, from the Stevenson investigation to now.”

“You could go that way,” Feeney agreed. “And spend the next couple weeks buried in them. Or you could have Roarke load them up, use that fancy comp lab of his. Do a search for physical or verbal altercations—with people not currently in a cage. Separate out other cops. Not that she wouldn’t go for one, but civilians more likely. Won’t be quick, but quicker than slogging through a couple years of case files. Easier on the eyes, too.”