"And you, personally, put the flowers in the box."
"Oh yeah. It's no whoop. You just dump in some greenery, coupla sprigs of those little white flowers, then lay on the roses. My aunt keeps the boxes and tissues and ribbons all together so we can slap the orders together fast. The officer, she, like, called my aunt and verified. Do I need a lawyer?''
"No, Bobby, you don't need a lawyer. I appreciate you waiting until I could talk to you."
"So, like, I could go."
"Yeah, you can go."
He got up, grinning shakily. "I never really, like, talked to a cop before. It's not so bad."
"We hardly ever torture our witnesses these days."
He paled, then laughed. "That's, like, a joke, right?"
"You bet. Beat it, Bobby."
Eve shook her head, then signaled for Peabody to come in. "McNab get anything off the beeper?"
"The order was shot in on a public 'link, from Grand Central. It was keyed in, no voiceprint—and the order was paid for via electronic transfer of cash, point of order scrambled. We couldn't trace it with a fleet of bloodhound droids."
"I didn't figure he'd slip up again, not so soon. The van?"
"Nothing solid yet. I'm working on the shoes, too. Computer estimates a size eight. That's small for a man's shoe. That style hit the market only six months ago—high-end price range. It's the epitome of air tread for the stylish jock. So far, I'm down to six hundred pair of size eights sold in the city."
"Keep running it. And the coat?"
"I've only got about thirty purchases for the same three-month period. No matches yet. And none on the statue."
"McNab?"
Seconds later, he stuck his head in the doorway. "Yo."
"Full progress and status report."
"Let's start with the wand." He made himself at home by sitting on Eve's desk. "I like our chances there. That e-jock of Roarke's knows his shit. Down at Trident Security and Communications—that's Roarke's gig—they've been working on a jammer of this style and power for over a year. A. A. says they've nearly worked out the bugs."
"A. A.?"
"That's the jock. Plenty of brain cells there. Anyway, he projects they'll have a model under wraps within six months—four if they get lucky. Rumor is that several other e-firms are working on the same deal. One of those firms is Brennen's. The take from the industrial espionage people is that Brennen's is the closest competition."
"Does anyone have a prototype?"
"A. A. showed me one. It's fairly icy, but only hits the mark as of now at extreme close range. The remote capability's giving them some grief. It's still got some major power fluctuation."
"So how did our man get his hands on one that doesn't give him grief?"
"Good question. I'm thinking he's put some time in at R and D himself."
"Yeah, I'd agree with that. We'll run the six most likely from Inspector Farrell's shakedown and see if any of them pop."
"And I wonder if the unit he used is a one-shot."
Eve narrowed her eyes. "Only good for one jam at a time? What would you do, recharge it? Toss it? Reconfigure?"
"Recharge or recon, I'd say. I'm working with A. A. on it."
"Good, keep at it. Any luck with the echo?"