“What’s my assignment?” Roarke asked her.
“We’ve culled out names from the gala’s guest and staff lists. Males that fit the elements of Mira’s profile, with a little refining. The probability, given current evidence and statements, runs more than ninety percent he was there. It’s possible he crashed, isn’t on either list, but that’s where we start.”
She ordered the list Peabody’d sent her on her wall screen. “This is my share. I’ve cut down Mira’s age bracket. I’m reasonably sure he’s closer to thirty than fifty, otherwise these individuals run on what she profiled. We’re going to dig down, every name. Family, education, travel, finances, any criminal however small—including traffic violations. Medical that we can get—and for now, no hacking.”
“Lieutenant,” he said with sorrow. “You spoil my fun.”
“For now,” she said again. “We get this list down, I’ll wrestle out a warrant for deeper, for any sealed files, for the works. Connections to theater or screen—anything involving the level of makeup and costuming the UNSUB uses, that’s a big bonus if found. Same with any major interest in e-work.”
“As both of those may simply be a hobby, something that wouldn’t show in the data.”
“That’s it. I’m going to give you the first five.”
“It seems a lot of names for the profile.”
“Some of them were married or cohabbed at the time of the gala, and now aren’t. We’re checking them. Some are staff who, while not assigned specifically to the gala, would have easy access. Peabody added those, and she’s not wrong.”
“I’ll start in my office. I need to multitask for the next hour or so. Then I may join you in here.”
Eve settled into it. It was routine—tedious, but routine—with a rhythm she knew well. Within thirty minutes, she’d eliminated two names, one as she could confirm he’d been in Rio on the night the Patricks had been assaulted, and the second who’d been involved in a vehicular accident the day of the Strazzas’ attack, and was still recovering from a fractured ankle and other injuries.
She moved on, discarding, earmarking for a yet deeper search.
When Roarke came in, she’d just programmed more coffee as she studied the next subject.
“This guy went to clown school. Why is there a school for clowns? Why are there clowns?”
“Someone has to make ’em laugh.”
She slid her gaze to his face. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “While some fear the clown, many more are vastly entertained.”
“This guy supplements his income in food services by dressing up in weird getups for parties and benefits. Or his income in food services supplements his clown gigs. Hard to tell. But there you have makeup and costumes and a propensity to scare the shit out of people.”
“Some people.”
Sincerely shocked, she gaped at him. “You like clowns?”
“Like is a strong word in this context.” He helped himself to her coffee. “I assume the clown goes on the suspect list.”
“You bet your ass.”
“I have one out of my five that bears a deeper look. The others I’ve eliminated, for reasons I’ve detailed in my memo back to you.”
“Good. I’ve got three out of nine.”
Roarke lifted an eyebrow. “You’re quicker at this.”
“I’m the cop.” And a human being, she thought, who could use a little smugness. “Want another set?”
“All right.” He sat at the auxiliary, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up.
She sent him five more, settled back into the rhythm.
At one point, she sat back. “I don’t think this guy’s a killer—or not ours anyway—but he’s sure as hell into something hinky.”
“Hinky as in supporting a sidepiece, travel and gifts for same—I’ve had a few of those—or hinky as in criminal?”