“A couple pounds, and you can scope them down to under a foot.”
“The rifle breaks down, right?”
“Sure.” He glanced at Roarke. “I can show you.”
Roarke took it down, offered it to him.
Lowenbaum checked the charge gauge, noted it was empty, but flicked the down switch anyway. “Safety first,” he said. Then he turned a small lever, separated the barrel, the charger, the scope, and had the weapon in four compact pieces in about ten seconds.
“You could fit it into a standard briefcase broken down,” Eve observed.
“Correct, but if you have any respect for your weapon, you have a case with molded slots for the parts.”
“It wouldn’t get through security in a government building, a museum, that kind of public building.”
“Not a chance,” Lowenbaum said.
“Okay, so most likely an apartment building, a hotel, a retail or rental space of some kind.”
She wandered, thinking, as Lowenbaum competently reassembled the weapon.
“Who’s best at this sort of reconstruction at the lab?” she asked.
“It’s going to be Dickhead,” Lowenbaum said.
“Come on, does it have to be?” They called the chief lab tech Dickhead for a reason.
“It does. You give him the push, I’ll work with him when I can.”
“I won’t turn that down. Thanks.”
“No thanks needed, because unless I’m way off, Dallas, you’ve got yourself an LDSK.”
“An LDSK?”
Eve turned to Roarke. “Long-distance serial killer.”
“Cops,” he murmured. “Who else would have the acronym at hand?”
“Wouldn’t need one if people weren’t so fucked-up. Who do you know who could make those three strikes?”
Lowenbaum puffed out a breath. “I could. I’ve got a couple guys on my team who could. And yeah, I get you need to run them, but there’s no way. I know a few other guys, and I’ll make you a damn list. I’m going to say I know a few who could make the strikes. I don’t know anybody who would.”
“Names would help anyway.”
“And it could be a pro, Dallas. You can pull up a list there as easy as I can.”
“I will. But who’d hire a pro to kill a part-time student/part-time barista—female vic. An OB/GYN—vic two. A high school history teacher?”
“People are fucked-up,” Lowenbaum reminded her.
“Yeah, they are.”
“You’re the murder cop. You do what you do there, and I’ll do what I can on the tactical end. Three strikes like that?” The way he shook his head transmitted both admiration and concern. “The shooter’s feeling pretty fine right now.”
“And feeling pretty fine, he’ll want to feel pretty fine again.”
—