“No, it doesn’t. The weapon?”
“We’ve got a couple thousand out there in private collections,” Feeney began, nibbling on a cashew. “Three in the boroughs. Those are the ones that’ve been registered,” he added with a thin smile. “The silencer doesn’t have to be registered, as it doesn’t qualify as deadly on its own. No way of tracing it.”
He leaned back, tapped the monitor. “As far as the first disc, I’ve been running it. I came up with a couple of shadows. Makes me certain he recorded more than the murder. But I haven’t been able to enhance anything. Whoever edited that disc knew all the tricks or had access to equipment that knew them for him.”
“What about the sweepers?”
“Commander ordered them for this morning, per your request.” Feeney glanced at his watch. “Should be there now. I picked up the security discs on my way in, ran them. We’ve got a twenty-minute time lapse starting at three-ten, night before last.”
“Bastard waltzed right in,” she muttered. “It’s a shitty neighborhood, Feeney, but an upscale building. Nobody noticed him either time, which means he blends.”
“Or they’re used to seeing him.”
“Because he was one of Sharon’s regulars. Tell me why a man who was a regular client or an expensive, sophisticated, experienced prostitute, chose a green, low-scale what do you call it, ingenue like Lola Starr for his second hit?”
Feeney pursed his lips. “He likes variety?”
Eve shook her head. “Maybe he liked it so much the first time, he’s not going to be choosy now. Four more to go, Feeney. He told us right off the bat we had a serial killer. He announced it, letting us know Sharon wasn’t particularly important. Just one of six.”
She blew out a breath, unsatisfied. “So why’d he go back?” she said to herself. “What was he looking for?”
“Maybe the sweepers’ll tell us.”
“Maybe.” She picked up a list from her desk. “I’m going to check out Sharon’s client list again, then hit Lola’s.”
Feeney cleared his throat, chose another cashew from his little bag. “I hate to be the one to tell you, Dallas. The senator’s demanding an update.”
“I have nothing to tell him.”
“You’re going to have to tell him this afternoon. In East Washington.”
She stopped a pace in front of the door. “Bullshit.”
“Commander gave me the news. We’re on the two o’clock shuttle.” Feeney thought resignedly of how his stomach reacted to air travel. “I hate politics.”
Eve was still gritting her teeth over her briefing with Whitney when she ran headlong into DeBlass’s security outside his office in the New Senate Office Building, East Washington.
Their identification aside, both she and Feeney were scanned, and according to the revised Federal Property Act of 2022, were obliged to hand over their weapons.
“Like we’re going to zap the guy while he’s sitting at his desk,” Feeney muttered as they were escorted over red, white, and blue carpet.
“I wouldn’t mind giving several of these guys a quick buzz.” Flanked by suits and shined shoes, Eve slouched in front of the glossy door of the senator’s office, waiting for the internal camera to clear them.
“If you ask me, East Washington’s been paranoid since the terrorist hit.” Feeney sneered into the camera. “Couple dozen legislators get whacked, and they never forget it.”
The door opened, and Rockman, pristine in needle-thin pin stripes, nodded. “Long memories are an advantage in politics, Captain Feeney. Lieutenant Dallas,” he added with another nod. “We appreciate your promptness.”
“I had no idea the senator and my chief were so close,” Eve said as she stepped inside. “Or that both of them would be so anxious to waste the taxpayers’ money.”
“Perhaps they both consider justice priceless.” Rockman gestured them toward the gleaming desk of cherrywood—certainly priceless—where DeBlass waited.
He had, as far as Eve could see, benefited from the change of temperature in the country—too lukewarm in her opinion—and the repeal of the Two Term Bill. Under current law, a politician could now retain his seat for life. All he had to do was buffalo his constituents into electing him.
DeBlass certainly looked at home. His paneled office was as hushed as a cathedral and every bit as reverent with its altarlike desk, the visitor chairs as subservient as pews.
“Sit,” DeBlass barked, and folded his large-knuckled hands on the desk. “My latest information is that you are no closer to finding the monster who murdered my granddaughter than you were a week ago.” His dark brows beetled over his eyes. “I find this difficult to understand, considering the resources of the New York Police Department.”
“Senator.” Eve let Commander Whitney’s terse instructions play in her head: Be tactful, respectful, and tell him nothing he doesn’t already know. “We’re using those resources to investigate and gather evidence. While the department is not now prepared to make an arrest, every possible effort is being made to bring your granddaughter’s murderer to justice. Her case is my first priority, and you have my word it will continue to be until it can be satisfactorily closed.”