“Looks like,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a mystery to me. The disc just showed up on my desk. Nothing to stop us from using data accessed from an anonymous source. For all I know, it came from a mole in the FBI.”

She could have argued, she could have pressed. But the fact was, even if he knew the data had come from Roarke, Feeney would never admit it. “Let’s have a look. You’re late,” she said when McNab strolled in.

“Sorry, Lieutenant, unavoidably detained.” He sauntered over, took a chair, and made it clear to everyone in the room that he wasn’t so much as looking at Peabody.

She made it equally clear she wasn’t so much as looking at him.

The result was the temperature in the room plummeted, the air went frosty, and Eve and Feeney exchanged pained glances.

“You have the hard copy of my updated report. We have a fresh alias to hang on Sylvester Yost.” She gestured toward the board where Yost’s various images and names were posted, alongside his known victims, the location of each murder, and the physical evidence found on scene.

“I did a run,” she continued. “Computer, data on Roles, Martin K., on-screen. You’ll note he developed this alter ego carefully. He has full identification, credit line, residence, but the address is bogus. He filed taxes under this name, maintained a health card, carried a passport. We have some of these activities under other aliases, but none that we have verified to date maintain and employ all these activities. This, at my guess, is his retirement identity, the one he’s keeping clean and normal so it sends up no flags via CompuGuard or any security agency.”

“If he’s a skilled hacker, he may have adjusted the data here and there to suit,” McNab put in.

“Agreed. He is unaware that we’ve made this match. This is the identity we focus on, and we make sure we don’t send up flags. All search and scan on this individual will be Level Three. He’ll own property under this name. Find it.”

“I’ll start the search right after the briefing,” said McNab. “I’ve been trying a scattershot scan on known victims, getting probabilities on who might have contracted the hits. I’ve got a couple of possibles, but nothing solid enough to move on yet.”

“Taking a page out of the book ignored by our pals in the FBI, we don’t move until we know. A man as experienced and as efficient as this has solid backup ID. We spook him, he could ditch Roles and go with something we don’t have a tag on. Let’s keep him confident. Now, for Captain Feeney’s big surprise.”

She gestured and turned the briefing over. Feeney rubbed his hands together, got to his feet, and ran through the data Roarke had passed on to him.

McNab nearly bounced in his seat. “This is hot stuff.”

Peabody spared a look for McNab now, a withering one. “Like you’d know hot.”

He was so pleased she’d been the first to break, the insult barely registered. “I was born hot. How’d you get into the files?”

Feeney looked down his pug nose. “Accessing official data or the attempt to access is illegal. This data was given to me by an anonymous source. As it’s gone deep into confidentials without sending flags, I have to assume the source is federal.”

“And pigs fly,” Eve said under her breath. “However the information came into our hands, we have it. It’s a tool. Not a hammer,” she said, scanning faces and watching disappointment form. “A pry bar. Feeney, I’d like to arrange a private meet with Stowe—use this. Her record’s spotless, and if this data proving she lied and/or falsified her official documents got back to the Bureau drones, she’d have a big ugly mark on it, along with a reprimand. She’d be kicked off this investigation and likely assigned, at least temporarily, to some field office in Bumfuck. She doesn’t want that. I say she doesn’t want it bad enough to trade.”

“As long as you squeeze till it stings, that’ll do for me. You’ll note, our dear friend Special Agent Jacoby, while not exactly a birdbrain, does not go to the head of the class. His profile shows average intelligence, offset by arrogance, ambition, and a resentment for authority. You add that all up, spit it out, and you got a dangerous individual. If anybody’s going to fuck this up, it’s going to be him. I wouldn’t mind asking Mira to take a look at him, give us her take.”

“The data came to you,” Eve told him. “Your call. Now probability results.” She ordered them on-screen. “You can see we’ve got a ninety-eight point eight percent that he’ll attempt to complete the job. He has a rep; he won’t want it marred. He’ll go for the next target, and he’ll try to stay on schedule. The first two came close together. I believe the third attempt will be within the next twenty-four. Probability, again, goes to ninety-three point six that subject is in the city or within easy transpo distance. But that’s qualified by the assumption his target is also in the city or its environs. There’s no way we can be sure of that single fact, and due to it, no way we can begin to protect whoever he intends to hit next.”

She looked back at the screen. “So we work on it. And we wait on it.”

She closed the briefing, detailing assignments, scheduling a morning briefing for eight. “We’ve got an hour till end of shift. If nothing pops by then, we’ll call it for the night. Get some sleep, and we’ll start pushing tomorrow.”

“Works for me, but I might have to pass on the sleep. I’ve got a date.” McNab had waited through the briefing just for the chance to say it. And he resisted, through enormous will, looking around for Peabody’s reaction.

But Eve saw it. The jerk of shock, the initial hurt that burned cleanly toward fury, then iced in

to dismissal. Iced, she thought, if you didn’t know her well enough to see through the shield to the wound.

Damn it.

“I’m sure we’re all thrilled for you, McNab,” Eve said coolly. “Eight hundred, this conference room. Dismissed.” She kept her eyes on his as she spoke, had the nasty pleasure of seeing him shrink a little.

Then he was up and swaggering out the door. Feeney rolled his eyes and followed. Followed just close enough to smack his detective smartly on the side of the head with the flat of his hand.

“Ow! What the hell?”

“You know what the hell.”

“Oh, fine. Great. She can rumba off with some sex-for-hire sleazebag, and nobody says a thing. I have a date and I get blindsided.”

Tags: J.D. Robb In Death Mystery
Source: readsnovelonline.net