Apprentice in Death (In Death 43)

“McNab started researching those last night.” Peabody hustled to the car, let out an audible “Ahhh” when she settled into the seat. “He was totally all about it. What is it with men and weapons?”

“I’m not a man. I like weapons.”

“Right. Anyway. He was researching the weapon, or possible weapon, and started doing the math. The math I get, because geek, then you sent over that program Roarke wrote up. It was like Christmas and hot sex and chocolate pudding for him all together. Like having hot sex covered with chocolate pudding on Christmas. Hmm.”

“Don’t go there.”

“Already did, but saving it for later. So he’s playing with that, and I started on the wit list. Like I said in my report, the poor little guy with the broken leg and his parents didn’t see a thing until they hit the ice. Then all they really saw was the kid, and the girl. It happened so fast. They were about to exit the rink when it happened, were looking the other way, and bam!”

“We’ll finish the list, but it’s not going to come down to wits at the rink on this. The strike came from too far away. I haven’t found any connection between the victims, and I don’t think there’s going to be any.”

“If this was completely random . . .” Peabody glanced out at the people on the street, at the buildings and all the windows rising up.

“I didn’t say I’m convinced it was random. I want Morris’s full results, and we’re going to start checking the buildings on the short list Roarke worked out. The first victim, middle of the back, high-powered strike with echoes.”

“I know what that means! McNab ran it for me last night. Echoes means the strike’s designed to spread once it hits the target.”

“She wouldn’t have survived it—at least low odds—anyway. Nearly severed her spine. So that tells me the kill was imperative, not just the strike. And maybe that’s why he stopped at three. Panic’s starting, people heading for cover, or bunching up, ducking down. You’re going to get some solid strikes, but maybe not solid enough for a kill. This way, he’s three for three.”

“Don’t take chances, lower your percentage.” Peabody blew out a breath as Eve turned toward the lab. “How many buildings on the short list?”

“Enough that I’m pulling in whoever’s not working a hot to help check them out.”

Inside, in the warren of the lab, Eve headed straight for Dickhead.

While most of the techs wore white lab coats, the slick of dark hair on his egg-shaped head made him easy to spot as he huddled over his long work counter.

She imagined his spidery fingers working over a keyboard or on a screen. The man was a creepy pain in the ass, but he had skills. And she needed them.

He glanced up as she approached, and nearly knocked her off her stride. The poor excuse for facial hair he’d been trying to grow now resembled an anemic caterpillar over his mouth, and a tattered spiderweb on his chin.

If he’d developed the new look to lure women—and luring women was his greatest wish—Eve predicted brutal disappointment.

“LDSK,” he said, with what might have been pleasure.

“That’s right.”

“We don’t get those every day. Long-range laser rifle—Lowenbaum’s right on the model, I figure.”

“It has to be military grade. Morris said the first vic—as far as he’d gotten this morning—had damage to internal organs.”

“Yeah, yeah, echoes. I figured it.” He zipped down the counter on his stool, tapped a screen.

“See here? CGI sim of a strike with a Tactical-XT, military grade. Laser beam in red, range here is a thousand yards. Trigger to strike? One-point-three seconds. See the red hit the body, how the strike pinpoints, then spreads? That’s your echo. See, it hits, then it blooms.” He lifted his hands, upturned palms cupped, then drew them apart. “You ain’t walking away from that.”

“I have three people in the morgue who didn’t walk away from that.”

“You’re on the dead. I’m on the weapon. ME says military grade, echoes, that caps that for me, as that’s what I’m seeing on the security feed. Talked with Lowenbaum, and we’re agreed on it.”

“I’m not arguing it.”

He just waved that away. “You gotta figure the range of a military-grade Tact-XT is—known record—three-point-six miles.”

“I got that, Berenski, I need—”

“In the right hands, these strikes could’ve been made from a barge in the fricking East River. You gotta get that. But I want to meet the son of a bitch who could make that strike, that strike in New York, considering sight lines, wind variance, temperature, not to mention the movement of the targets.”

“When I nail the son of a bitch, I’ll introduce you.”