“No. I—” Her ’link signaled a text. “Give me a sec.”
She pulled it out, read the communication. Shook her head. “Arrogant and greedy,” she muttered. “Roarke’s letting me know Tween just put the painting Modesto bought from Stowe up for sale. I gave Tween a flick on the painting last night, as it was on the wall in the room where I notified him. He knew about the artist, the painting. He couldn’t leave it in his house, but didn’t just burn the damn thing. Might as well make a profit, help offset the killing fee.”
She put the ’link away. “I have the victim’s family coming in at noon. Morris will have the body ready for them after we speak. As of this morning, Tween hasn’t contacted the ME’s office.”
“He doesn’t even pretend to give a shit,” Feeney decided. “Send me what you’ve got. I’ll have an e-team ready when you get your warrant.”
“I will.” She turned to Whitney. She thought about the weight, because he had it right. You always carried it. “We’ll bring him down, sir.”
“I depend on it.”
5
Eve double-timed it back to Homicide. Swinging into the bullpen, she snapped, “Peabody!” and headed toward her office.
She almost made it.
Baxter rushed over. “Sorry, LT, I know you’re tight for time, but my boy and I need to follow a lead.”
“Then follow it.”
“To some Bumfuck town out in nowhere rural Maryland. I need you to sign off for the shuttle trip, then a rental car because there’s no shuttle service in Bumfuck nowhere.”
She gestured for the tablet he held out, used her finger to scrawl her name. “Why?”
“Guy got himself beat to death and stuffed in a commercial recycler behind a hell of a good Italian restaurant over by Union Square. Wits saw a red rattletrap ’52 Muscleman coupe go screaming off about ten minutes after official TOD of said beat-to-death guy, who was also known for transferring ill-gotten goods out of New York. One of his known associates in the trade, one Frankie Nalley, lives in Bumfuck and has a red rattletrap ’52 Muscleman coupe registered in his name.”
“Go get him,” Eve advised, and continued to her office.
Peabody stood waiting, two mugs of coffee in hand. “I took a chance.”
“In this case, good call.” Eve took the coffee. “Take the crap chair because I don’t have time to be nice.” Eve dropped down at her desk while Peabody sat, gingerly, on the ass-biting visitor’s chair.
“Twenty years ago Whitney and Feeney worked a joint investigation on a triple homicide home invasion. Solomen: Adam, Ellen, and Thaddeus. Look up the file, familiarize yourself. Cobbe’s the one who got away.”
“Cobbe? No shit?”
“None. I need to write all this up, update the board. Get the file, get the details. And send a copy to Mira now. Whitney’s going to work the alphabets, and he’s got a personal stake, so it’ll get done soon. Additionally, Tween’s put the Stowe painting hanging in his wife’s room up for sale.”
“He doesn’t waste time.”
“The Modestos are coming in at noon. Get a conference room.”
“And neither do you.”
No time to waste, she thought—and considering the vic’s family, realized she needed to make them as comfortable as possible.
“Transfer some of my coffee in there.”
“Yay!”
“And some tea that doesn’t taste like piss. I have some of Mira’s in my AC. While I’m with Mira, contact Reo—she’s going to be in court—and let her know we have enough to arrest Tween and for the search warrant, which will include the seizure of all e’s.
“Take your coffee, get on it.”
As the chair bit both ways, Peabody stood up just as gingerly. “I’ll text you which conference room in case you run over with Mira.”
“Good. With this new data, I might.”
Eve wrote up the notes on her meeting, sent a copy to Roarke. Then she dug up the old file, printed out the photos of the victims, of the crime scene, of Big Tom Ivan, and of Lorcan Cobbe, age twenty.
She studied the young Cobbe, and though she searched—objectively—found no familial resemblance between him and Roarke. She’d have termed Cobbe handsome, somewhat smooth at twenty—if she didn’t count his eyes.
Either he hadn’t cared or hadn’t been skilled enough to hide the killer in them.
She added them all to her board.
After a quick glance at the time, she did a run on Colin Boswell, then decided to save it for later when she noted he’d died—stabbed, bludgeoned, and tossed in the river in Dublin fifteen years before.
No doubt a man like Boswell had accumulated plenty of enemies; she wondered if Cobbe had decided eliminating the top guy was a way to move up.
She considered texting Roarke, then just tagged him. If it went to v-mail, she’d—
“Lieutenant.”
His face came on-screen, and she could admit a measure of relief. Safe. Of course he was safe, but it didn’t hurt to verify it.
“I sent you a report.”
“I see, yes, but haven’t had a chance to look it over as yet.”
“Cobbe was in New York twenty years ago, likely working for a Colin Boswell.”
“Boss Boswell. Now, there’s a name I know.”
“I thought you would. He and some enforcer from New York killed Boswell’s accountant, wife, and teenage son. The accountant was doubling as Whitney’s weasel.”
“Is that so? Links and shadows everywhere.”
“Whitney and Feeney worked the investigation. Read my notes. I may need more data on Boswell, what you can tell me about him, what I might not find in the file. You’re to be assigned to this investigation and assigned a weapon.”
He actually laughed. “I don’t believe I’ll comment on that particular aspect over the ’link.”
“Your police issue will be for defense purposes,” she said firmly. “I’ll have Tween in the box this afternoon.”
“What time?”
“Between fourteen and fifteen hundred hours. Reo’s in court until fourteen hundred and I want her here for this. Keep an eye on that art sale.”
“I don’t have to. I bought the painting.”
“You—”
“It’s good work,” he said easily, “and I felt it shouldn’t go to someone who didn’t understand its value.”
“That’s sentimental slosh.”
“Perhaps. But as I said, I know Galla’s brother a little. When this is done, he might want to have it, as it meant something to her.”
Sometimes sentimental slosh was hard to argue with.
“Okay. I have a consult with Mira. I think it might help if you made time to consult with her, too.”
He angled his head. She couldn’t claim the man made for an easy read, but she knew suspicion when it blasted her in the face.
“For?”
“Insight into Cobbe. Your insight. Direct from you instead of passed through me. I’ve got three more faces on my board, Roarke, one of them a minor. They’re twenty years gone, but they deserve justice. She may hear something you say in a way that opens something. It’s what she does.”