Reo held up a hand, skimmed the other through her windblown, curly hair. “We’re giving you ammunition, Dallas. He needs incentive to lead us to her before she takes out another swath of people. Dr. Mira?”
“It could play on two levels. On his paternal instincts to protect, and on his need to have the mission complete—however long it might take.”
“Which is just what she will do if we let her walk at eighteen.”
Reo angled her head. “And what are the odds of that actually happening? The odds of a peaceful surrender and no further harm done?”
Eve started to speak, then waited for her initial outrage to fade, and for more caffeine to kick in. “Okay. Okay, I get it. No way she surrenders without a fight. That’s in stone? That part’s nonrefundable?”
Reo smiled. “She resists in any way, stomps her evil little foot and stubs your toe, the deal’s void.”
“Let me work him awhile first. If I can’t break him down, we’ll toss this in. That way it sounds and feels like a concession. I don’t want to walk in with any deal.”
“That’s good, that works. He’s got a court-appointed as his counsel. Guy named Kent Pratt. He’s got a rep as the public defenders’ patron saint of lost causes.”
“All right. Let me get started.”
“I’ll be in Observation if you need to pull me in for the deal.”
“If I do, we play it up. I’m going to be really pissed. I may call you rude names.”
Reo smiled again, sunnily. “Wouldn’t be the first.”
16
Eve tagged Peabody as she gathered what she needed.
“One of the injured who’d stabilized has taken a turn,” Peabody told her. “I don’t have all the details—it’s medical and complicated—but she’s back in surgery.”
“Name?”
“Adele Ninsky.”
The woman Summerset was treating when she’d arrived on scene, Eve thought, then set it aside.
“I want you to play up the father-daughter connection. Parental duty, poor young girl. You can be tough on him, but soften up with the girl.”
“Got it. I guess it’s not much of a stretch.”
“It should be. Look at the board. It damn well should be.”
Scooping up files, Eve strode out.
Peabody quickened her pace to catch up. “Baxter and Trueheart hit one wit they think saw her minutes after the Times Square attack. He didn’t recognize her until they interviewed him, showed him Yancy’s sketch. He says he was heading into the building as she was coming out. He held the door for her. She was carrying a large metal case, and a rolling duffle. Had a backpack. He remembers because he said, like, ‘Let me help you,’ and held the door, and he claims she gave him this, quote—‘scary smile’—unquote, and said she didn’t need anybody’s help. He was a little steamed so he stared after her for a minute. He thinks she was headed for the bus stop. Half a block down. They’re checking it out.”
“Good.” Eve paused at the door to the Interview room. “No mistakes,” she said and then walked in.
“Record on,” she began, reading the data into that record as she sized up the two men at the table.
Mackie, pale, defiant, his eyes shielded behind lightly tinted goggles. Through them she noted the eyes were bloodshot, bruised, and she felt nothing.
The lawyer wore a cheap suit and a skinny black tie. His face sported a night’s worth of scruff, with his idealism shining bright under it.
Eve sat, stacked up her files, folded her hands over them. “Well, Mackie, here we are.”
“My client is under medical care for severe injuries sustained under questionable circumstances. Therefore—”
“Bullshit. If you reviewed the record, Counselor, you know there are no questions. Your client fired on police officers.”