“Maybe he’ll make a move there. Anyhow, I started on the big guy’s—Pearson’s. So far, nothing off, but I’ve got a ways to go.”
“I’m working on getting you toys from Econo.”
Feeney puffed out his cheeks. “I’m gonna need more boys. You’re looking inside job?”
“I’m just looking. I’ve got a briefing downstairs. And Roarke’s coming in—not for EDD,” she said quickly. “I need somebody who knows what the fuck about big business mergers.”
“If he wants to play after the what the fuck, I’ll take him. I’m gonna walk you out. Fizzies?” he asked his geeks.
“Solid,” they said in unison.
“So,” Feeney began as they walked out. “You know that Oscar deal’s coming up.”
“Oscar who?”
He scratched fingers through his wiry hair. “Jesus, Dallas, even I know about the fricking Oscars. The vid award thing.”
“Right. I knew that.” Somewhere, in some corner of her brain.
“You’re not going?”
“No.”
“The Icove vid’s up for a shitload. Nadine’s up for one. Why aren’t you going?”
Inside her head, she sulked at the question. “I don’t want to. You have to get all fancied up and talk to other fancied-up people, and sit there with them, right? And you have to do it in New L.A. with the media all up in your grill asking idiot questions like: Who are you wearing?”
“Yeah. I’d want to stun myself first, but it’s a BFD anyway. You know Peabody and McNab got invites to it.”
“No.” Eve stopped, more than surprised. “Are you sure? Peabody’d be nagging me brainless about it.”
“I’m sure. I got it from Callendar because McNab’s keeping it down low, too. And I figure they’re not nagging us brainless because we just gave them five days off, and you gave them the place in Mexico to recharge. So they’re not saying anything about it because they don’t want to be greedy assholes.”
“Okay.”
He sent her that basset-hound look as he ordered up the fizzies at Vending. “It’s a BFD, kid. Likely a once-in-a-lifetime BFD. I’d be willing to spring McNab for it if you spring Peabody.”
“We just caught a case with twelve vics. Shit, shit, fuck! When is it?”
“Sunday.”
“The what? Like the next one coming?”
“Yeah, like the next one coming. But Sunday. They could take the weekend, be back Monday if this is still going hot. Tuesday, maybe, if we nail it—because it goes late, I guess. What I’m saying about that admin kid runs true. We gotta have a life. Don’t say anything yet. Give it a day or two.”
“Fine,” she grumbled as he armed himself with fizzies. “Now I’ve got to ask Roarke, if I decide to spring her, to provide transpo.”
“You oughta talk to Nadine about that. She’s going for sure. She’s probably got something lined up they could hitch to.”
“Maybe. Shit. It’s bad enough she did all this with Icove, now she’s got me reading the manuscript deal for the Red Horse case she’s done.”
“Yeah? How is it?”
Eve’s shoulders sagged. “It’s fucking good. I hate that. I’ve gotta go.”
Oscars, my ass, she thought as she strode away. How was she supposed to think about the freaking Oscars when she had twelve in the morgue? Most of them in pieces.
She put it aside to worry about later, hopped on a glide. And put her brain in the job.
She strode into Homicide, blinked once at the bug-eyed multicolored fish on Jenkinson’s virulent blue tie, and kept on going until she hit the comforting dull colors of her office.
Because the swallow of rat soup still sat uneasy, she locked her door before stepping over to her AutoChef. She programmed an alfalfa power smoothie, her latest hiding place for her candy stash.
“Son of a bitch!” She pulled out an actual alfalfa power smoothie. “Son of candy-stealing bitch of a bastard!”
Not only had the nefarious Candy Thief snatched her chocolate, he/she had taken the time and trouble to replace it with the actual item on the freaking menu.
She had to respect that.
When she caught the son of a bitching bastard—and she would, oh, she would—she’d hang the thief out her window by the heels. Naked.
But she’d do so with respect.
For now, she unlocked her door, programmed black coffee, then set up her book and board.
To satisfy herself, she started a couple of runs while she updated her notes, requested a search and seizure warrant for electronics at Econo’s New York base, and for Willimina Karson’s personal e’s.
She heard Peabody’s familiar clomp as she finished up. “We’re ready when you are, Dallas.”
Eve gathered her files. “The Rogan/Greenspan’s domestic’s husband has a ding back when he was sixteen,” she said as they walked. “Underage drinking at an unsupervised party where the kids were stupid enough to get so loud the neighbors called the cops. Otherwise, he’s clean. He’s worked for the same company for twelve years. They live within their means. And a check on Loren Able verifies everything he told us.”
She walked into the conference room, scanned the board Peabody had set up, approved.
Baxter and Trueheart sat at the conference table. Trueheart, young and earnest, went over his notes with a tube of ginger ale at his elbow. Baxter, slick in his suit, kicked back with cop coffee in one hand while he studied the board.
“A lot of players, LT,” Baxter said.
“There’ll be more to come. I’m getting warrants for Econo. EDD will go through the office data, and Karson’s personal electronics, to start. Pearson’s son and daughter and his wife will be available for interview tomorrow morning. Whitney just informed me his wife and Pearson’s are close friends.”
Baxter winced. “That’s a not good on top of the already bad.”
“What have you got?”
Baxter looked at Trueheart. “Head it up, partner.”
“Sir, we took statements from a total of thirty-three Quantum employees. The company has three floors of offices at that location, and most had been evacuated when we arrived. Those who’d stayed to help the injured or had come back after the all clear we were able to interview. We’ll follow up with the others.”
“We focused initially on what we’ll call Ground Zero,” Baxter continued. “Most who weren’t in the conference room did the skedaddle. Can’t blame them. Some came back—loyalty or curiosity. I’m going to say nobody stood out on the first round. Trueheart’s started a standard run on the full list of employees, so we’ll take a closer look once we have the results.”
“If you knew a bomb was in the building, in the possession of, or on the person of an individual under extreme duress, what would you do?”
“I believe I’d be late for work,” Baxter answered.
“Let’s find out who wasn’t in the building. Who took a sick day, got there late, had a vacation day scheduled. Or just didn’t show up. Cross-check anyone from Econo who missed the meeting, or was, again, late to arrive.”
She pushed back from the table, walked to the board. “We’re looking for two unsubs, likely male. Potentially average height, and in fit condition. We have no other description at this time. However, due to a response text to Rogan’s admin, I lean toward at least one of them having some military training. If so, it strikes as most probable some of that training would be in explosives. And/or one or both of the unsubs has a connection to someone who can create a reliable, effective suicide vest or has the ability to build one himself.”
“Salazar’s good,” Baxter put in. “She should be able to ID some of the components. Bomb builders usually have a style, a signature.”
“We’ll hope for that.” She looked at Peabody. “You’re up.”
5