Roarke said, “Bloody, buggering hell,” and called for lights on at ten percent as she crawled out of bed.
“Baxter.” She hissed it as she scanned the readout. “Block video,” she ordered. “Dallas, and this better be damned good.”
“Sorry, LT. Trueheart and I were on deck, and we caught one.”
“I didn’t figure you were tagging me at four-fricking-thirty in the damn morning to chat about Arena Ball.”
“Nope, but how about those Metros?”
“Baxter, want to do everybody’s fives for the next six months?”
“Can’t say I do. We caught one,” he repeated, “but I’m pretty damn sure he’s yours.”
“Why? Who’s the DB?”
“Jonas Bartell Wymann.”
“And what makes him mine when I don’t know who that is?”
“DB’s sixty-eight, and was the chairman of the Council of Economic Advisers about a decade ago, also was once chief economist of the Department of Labor. Big money guy with his own big money. He went to Yale, LT. Same class as Senator Mira.”
“Fuck. Do you have COD?”
“Flagging him for Morris, but he’s been beaten—face and genitals. Sodomized. Hanged—naked—same as the first DB. And there’s a comp-generated message around his neck.”
“‘Justice is served’?”
“Yeah.”
“Give me the address.”
“He was practically your neighbor,” Baxter told her, and gave an address only two blocks
from her house.
“I’m on the way. Save me time, tag Peabody. Scene secured?”
“You bet. We’ll hold here for you.”
She clicked off, and Roarke—already up—handed her coffee. “Thanks. Shit. I’m going to grab a shower and get there.”
“We’ll grab one. I’m going with you. I’m hardly going back to bed,” he said before she could argue. “And I knew him.”
She gulped down coffee as she headed for the shower. “How?”
“Slightly. We weren’t friendly, but I can say he was brilliant—when it came to economy issues.” Roarke didn’t bother to sigh and barely winced when she ordered jets on full at 102 degrees.
He’d asked for it, after all.
“He sure as hell knew Senator Mira. Now we have two. And if my angle is right, that’s two BFDs from Yale, probable rapists. But—” She shoved her wet hair out of her eyes. “That angle may be a dead end now, and we might just have a couple of psychopaths torturing and murdering BFDs.”
She jumped out of the shower, let her thoughts swirl as hot and fast as the air in the drying tube.
Then she put them aside. Better to go in cold, stop trying to bend new angles. See, observe, gather data and evidence.
They dressed, and as she sat to put on her boots, Roarke handed her an egg pocket on a small plate. “Eat. He isn’t going anywhere, and we’ll be there in minutes.”
To save time, she bit in, then scowled at him. “There’s more than eggs in here.”