“Computers don’t have instincts.” He came over to sit on the edge of the desk. “What do you see?”
“Different body language, different styles, different types. But it could be role-playing. Maybe he’s an actor. Drinks at an expensive, romantic location, then the return to the victim’s apartment. He doesn’t dirty his own nest. Candles, wine, music, roses. So he uses the same staging. I haven’t got the results back on DNA, but the sweepers didn’t find any fingerprints but the victim’s and her neighbor’s in Grace Lutz’s apartment. Not on the wine bottle or the glasses, and not on her body. He sealed this time. Why is that, when he knew we’d have prints from the first murder?”
“If there are two—in reality or by personality split—they know each other intimately. Brothers of a sort,” Roarke said when Eve looked over. “Partners. And this is a game.”
“And they’d keep score. One each. They’d need a tiebreaker. I’m going to set up here to monitor some of the chat rooms where one of the screen names popped before.”
“Do it from my office. My equipment’s faster, and there’s more of it. Plus,” he added, knowing she was trying to think of a reason to refuse, “I can give you the list of the wine purchases.”
“Can you cross-reference that with purchases of Castillo di Vechio Cabernet, forty-three?”
“I can,” he agreed, pulling her to her feet. “If somebody keeps me company and has a glass of wine with me.”
“One glass,” she said and moved over into his office with him. “I may be at this for a while.”
“Just plug in the locations you want to monitor on this unit.”
She skirted the long black console, stood for a moment in front of one of his several sleek units. “I have to get them from the file.”
“Computer. Access Unit Six, Eve.” He perused the wine bottles in the rack behind his office bar. “Just enter the file name you want,” he told Eve, “and request copy.”
“Is there any point in saying that I keep official NYPSD data on my home unit, and you have no authorization to access that data?”
“None whatsoever. Something light, I think. Ah, this.” He drew out a bottle, turned, chuckled at her scowling face. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat while we’re at it?”
“Remind me to rag on you later.”
He opened the bottle. “I’ll make a note of it.”
Chapter 7
She sipped wine, nibbled on caviar, and tried not to think how ridiculous it was. If anyone from Central caught wind of it, she’d never live it down.
Roarke did the same, and prepared to enjoy it. “Key in the screen names you want to watch for.”
“DanteNYC,” she said. “DorianNYC. Feeney’s running names ending with NYC, but—”
“Yes, we can run another search. You’ll end up with millions, I imagine, but we might get lucky.”
“What about the account name? He may cruise with other screen names, or ditch the old ones when he’s done.”
“Here, nudge over.” He
scooted her chair a few inches to the left, then sat beside her. “Computer, run continuous search for all activity under account name La Belle Dame.”
BEGINNING SEARCH . . .
“Feeney said you had to go through the privacy blocks and account protocol in order to . . .” She trailed off, lifted her glass when Roarke merely quirked his eyebrows in her direction. “Never mind.”
“Computer, notify if and when activity under said account takes place, and locate source of activity.”
SEARCH IN PROCESS. NOTIFICATION WILL BE GIVEN. WORKING . . .
“It can’t be that simple.”
“Not usually, no.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Aren’t you lucky to have me? A rhetorical question, darling,” he said and stuffed caviar into her mouth. “Just let me put that consumer list on-screen.”
He did so manually, with a few deft taps on a keyboard. Eve watched them scroll on, blew out a breath.