“Great. Now back off. All the way off. That goes for Charles, too. And stay away from Ponti.”
Louise pushed off the desk. “Do you think he killed Kent?”
“I don’t know who killed Kent at this point in the investigation, but I know Ponti’s an arrogant asshole, and one with a temper. So steer clear.”
“All right, all right. I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll tell the staff to rotate back here. Oh, and the others, including volunteers, are on the disc, too, with contact information.”
“See if you can find a spot, Peabody,” Eve said when Louise w
alked out. “Start with the staff and volunteers on the disc, and I’ll take the rest here. Let’s get through this.”
“I know a spot. How about the medicals she talked to about Ponti?”
“They’ll wait.”
Eve glanced at the AC, decided she could wait for real coffee, then took the chair behind Louise’s desk to deal with the rest of the interviews.
Because Louise was right. They weren’t going to get anything new or revelatory here. But they had to tie it off.
7
When Eve finally walked into the bullpen at Central, she went straight to her office and coffee.
Peabody could handle the rest of the interviews via ’link, note if any required a face-to-face follow-up. Eve needed to set up her board, her book, write up her report.
As always, the routine helped—the physical act of arranging the board, reviewing as she did the faces, the images, the data.
Creating the murder book, writing a report put it all down in a clear, cohesive manner.
Facts, statements, evidence.
Suspects.
She ran thin there, admittedly. Topping the short list, Ponti and Thane.
With another cup of coffee, she put her boots on the desk, studied the board. Those faces, images, the timeline, the alibis.
Ponti, a medical, had to have a better than basic knowledge of chemistry, would likely have access to a lab. So that gave him a leg up on Thane.
Still, wasn’t it possible Thane had a connection to someone with knowledge and access?
Both had grudges against the victim—and grudges could simmer for a long, long time.
And both had tempers—and that was a strike against. Something cold in the killing. Not a hot-temper hit, but a cold one, and a remote one. No satisfying strike, no physical altercation, no looking into the victim’s eyes as life drained.
She swiveled to study the lab report again.
Not just rudimentary or even average knowledge. A real skill necessary, and patience, precision. Every step and stage covered. Nothing impulsive or of the moment.
She heard the footsteps approaching—not Peabody’s familiar clomp, but strong, authoritative strides.
She swung her boots off the desk and rose as Commander Whitney came to her open door.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant.”
His stride suited the authority he carried on broad shoulders. An imposing man, he filled the room as he crossed over to study her board. He might ride a desk, but his eyes reflected the street cop he’d been. The gray threaded through his close-cropped hair added a kind of weighty dignity. The lines on his wide, dark face showed he carried that weight.