Leverage in Death (In Death 47)

“I still may. Let’s see what we get from the ID shots and the runs first.”

She went back and found a silver-haired man on the desk.

“Lieutenant, sir, Rhoda’s back in her office with your detectives. No one has come in to visit Mr. Iler.”

“Good.”

In the office Rhoda sat studying the screen while Baxter handled the programming, one ID shot at a time. She started to rise when Eve and Roarke came in, but Roarke gestured her down.

“Take your time,” Baxter told her. “You see a lot of faces on any given day. Remember if anyone seems a little familiar, we’ll earmark it, come back to it.”

“Not that one,” she said. Baxter moved to the next.

“Visitors’ log?” Roarke asked.

“I’m cross-checking on the portable.” Trueheart sat behind the desk. “Not just exact names, but any that use the same initials, same first or last.”

“Keep at it,” Eve ordered, then turned to Rhoda. “He may have changed hair style, color. Grown a beard, shaved one off.”

At the end of the first long round, Rhoda picked out five possibles.

“I’m worried I’ve pulled those out because they remind me of someone else.”

“Take a break,” Eve told her.

“Oh, but I—”

“You’ll come back to it fresher if you take a couple minutes. Baxter, dispense some of the smooth charm and coffee for Rhoda. Hold the sexual prowess.”

“Sometimes it just ekes out. How do you take your coffee, Remarkable Rhoda?”

/> “Black, thanks. When you have real, why add to it?”

“My kind of woman. You aren’t married, are you?”

“Not at the moment. You’re all trying to settle me down, and I appreciate it. Knowing I’ve had almost daily contact with one of the men who’s done all of this?” She accepted the coffee, drank. “It’s unnerving.”

“Your nerves look steady to me.” Eve glanced at Roarke. He sat, working on his PPC. Already running the five possibles, she thought.

He made an excellent Peabody.

“Let me see them again. Not him,” Rhoda said as the first displayed. “I realize now he looks a little like—and this is embarrassing—Scott Trevor from Galaxy Force.”

“You watch Galaxy Force?” Baxter shot a finger at Rhoda.

“Addicted.”

“We need to have drinks and talk. And you’re right. He could be Scott Trevor’s older cousin. How about this one?”

She studied, closed her eyes, refocused. “Could we hold that one, come back to it? I’m just not sure.”

“No problem.” Baxter switched to the next.

“There’s just something . . .” She closed her eyes again, sat quietly, then opened. “Oh. Oh, I see. He’s shaved his hair. He’s shaved his head, and there’s something, else, something, I’m not—his nose. His nose is thinner now. Thin and straight—it looks as if it’s been broken and set poorly in this picture. He usually wears sunshades, even when he comes in after dark, almost always wears them. That’s Mr. Nordon. Oliver Nordon. He visits Mr. Iler, most often in the evening so I wouldn’t see him then, but I’ve seen his name on the log. And I’ve cleared him myself when he comes during the day. Mr. Nordon.”

“Got it,” Trueheart said. “Got him. Sergeant Oliver Silverman, under Captain Iler in Seoul.”

“Sergeant Oliver Silverman,” Roarke continued, “age thirty-two at the time of the attack. Wounded therein—broken leg, severe burns on torso, arms. Ah, shrapnel damaged his genitals, resulting in partial amputation and the fitting of a prosthetics.”