“There goes the brew and burgers,” Baxter lamented.
“Generate the ID shots. Let’s take a walk,” she said to Roarke.
She wanted some air, needed to move—and didn’t mind a bit if Iler happened to look out and see her on the street.
“You’re banking rent from a sociopathic killer.”
“Ah well,” Roarke responded. “It happens.”
“Lucius Iler.”
“Iler Antiquities?”
“That’s the one. You know him?”
“I don’t, no, but I’ve purchased a thing or two from the company over the years.”
“Oldest son,” she began, and told him.
She broke off long enough to contact Officer Carmichael, currently stationed in a fancy tea shop across the street.
“He’s up there, sir. He came out a couple times on the terrace. Looked upset. He’s doing some day drinking. Last time he came out he had his ’link, talked a lot. Seemed to calm down some.”
“Keep on it.”
Roarke strolled back toward the building with her. “So, basically, Iler’s killed eighteen people, terrorized two families because his own parents didn’t give him enough hugs, his brother died saving others, the woman his brother hoped to marry didn’t grieve for the rest of her life.”
“Add in an addiction to risk and gambling, greed, and a partner who strokes his twisted resentments, yeah. That’s about it.”
The hem of Roarke’s coat snapped in the March wind; his hair streamed in it. “It’ll be a pleasure to watch you take them both down, and to play a part in it. Why is Peabody on her way to California today?”
“Nadine. She got a spot on Angela Knight’s freaking Oscar week show out there, and had to bump everything up.”
“Was this before or after you found Iler?”
“After. I don’t want to talk about it,” Eve stated. “And don’t even think about kissing me when I’ve got two pair of cops’ eyes on this building.”
“I doubt they can read my thoughts at this distance.”
“Cops’ eyes,” she repeated, and stood for a moment longer in the noise and the wind.
“What would you like me to do, as your Peabody?”
“The first thing I’m going to say is I don’t know what you pay Rhoda, but she should get a big, fat bonus.”
“Consider it done.”
“Depending on how things go, I need Baxter and Trueheart to get back to the interviews—focusing on military backgrounds, but not exclusively. He could be using fake ID and data. I’ll need to take some interviews to get it done. While I am, I need you to start full-spread runs on the names I’ve culled out from the terrorist attack.”
“I can do that.”
“He may or may not go by the same name now, but you should look for the shaky. Maybe a questionable psych eval, particularly after the attack. Medical discharges, dishonorables.”
“Training in explosives?”
“Possible. Just as possible he developed those skills and interest after the attack. If he was married—doubtful, but a maybe—he’s divorced. If he’s employed, it’s in security, or that’s my most probable. He could be a cop, goddamn it, but if he went there, he’s former because this takes too much time—plus, the second hit came too hard up on the first. Too much leave time for a cop unless he’s pulled a sick-out or hardship leave. Don’t discount the cop angle just because it pisses me off.”
“I won’t. You’ve dismissed the tactic of taking Iler in, sweating it out of him?”