“No, which results—according to intel—from his fear of off-planet travel. His fee, currently, ranges from one to two million euros—plus expenses. He uses brokers or trusted contacts to acquire work. He prefers the close-up kill, prefers knives. Is said to have an impressive collection of them. He also prefers the quick kill—as illustrated with Modesto—but will, for an additional fee, spend additional time or torture. Sometimes because the client wants the target to suffer, sometimes because the client wants information from the target.
“His mother,” Whitney continued, “who still lives in Dublin—though in a far more comfortable situation than she provided through prostitution, before legalization, and street LC work after legalization—claims she’s had no direct contact with him in twenty years. Authorities have not succeeded in tracing the income she receives semiannually to any specific account.”
“Takes care of his ma, does he?” Baxter put in.
“Apparently.”
“She’s been questioned over the years,” Feeney added. “Her electronics confiscated, stripped down. Nothing, so far, has led back to Cobbe. Best guess? They communicate rarely, and through a code of some kind. Doubtful she knows where he is.” Feeney glanced at Eve. “She still claims she and Patrick Roarke made the kid. Mostly she keeps her mouth shut, keeps to herself. Travels most winters to sunnier climes. Nobody’s spotted Cobbe visiting her, in Dublin, or on her travels.
“What we got on her’s in the report, but that’s the gist. Commander?”
“He has been spotted, usually after the fact, around Europe. He will on occasion dye his hair, wear a wig or a minimal disguise that wouldn’t stand up to solid face recognition. He has many passports and credentials—top-of-the-line. Our expert consultant managed what the alphabets haven’t thus far, and identified two numbered accounts. He very likely has others, and safe boxes. Those accounts will now be watched for activity. Intel states he lives and travels well, but is unlikely to remain in one place for any length of time. He has no known companions or friends, just associates.”
“He wouldn’t use a hotel in New York, not after Modesto,” Eve began. “Not while he’s working out how to kill Roarke. Sorry, Commander.”
“You’re right, as far as we’re advised, he would rarely use a hotel for anything longer than one or two nights. He’s more likely to rent a furnished apartment or house for longer periods.”
“House,” Eve said. “He’d want room. He may have taken an apartment or a hotel room for Modesto, but he needs room and more privacy now. He won’t want to kill Roarke quick.”
“Or you, kid,” Feeney added.
“Or me. He’d want some time. Life’s goal and all that. How about transportation, Commander? How does he handle it?”
“He likes to drive, and it’s believed he often drives to jobs in Europe, even considerable distances.”
“More control,” Eve assumed. “More privacy, more flexibility.”
“He can also pilot a shuttle. He once eluded authorities by killing a shuttle pilot, replacing him, and flying a group of twenty business-people from London to a resort in Provence for a conference. By the time the authorities discovered the body, traced the switch, he’d stolen a car, which was later found in a parking area outside of Venice.”
“Slick,” Eve added. “He’s slick.”
“Be slicker. There’s considerable more in the report. You’ll be working with Inspector Abernathy, Interpol. He’s due here tomorrow.”
Eve felt the itch between her shoulder blades, ignored it. “A joint investigation?”
“Modesto was murdered in our city. Cobbe’s next targets are our family, in our city. We’ve invited Interpol in, but you’re in charge. Abernathy has been working Cobbe for nearly eight years, and will assist in any and all ways. This is your case, Lieutenant. These are your cops. I’ll end by saying that any and all overtime incurred through this investigation has been cleared. And you have Feeney for the duration. And myself if I can assist.”
“Thank you, Commander.” She turned to Feeney. “Can you hit the Italians for any of Bellacore’s e-data, records, communications, financials?”
“Can and will. You want McNab?”
“He’s handy. Detective Carmichael, Santiago, start looking at private shuttles into New York from Europe with single passengers, arriving within the last week. Cross-check with any cancellations on a departure from New York and vehicle rentals. Baxter, Trueheart, solo, male check-ins, high-end hotels, same time period. Jenkinson, Reineke, recent rentals, houses or multiunits with private entrance. He would’ve booked his transpo and accommodations when he took the Modesto job.”
Her entire squad, she thought. And even with it, so much ground to cover.
“Feeney, can you spare somebody to check on vehicle rentals, along with Carmichael and Santiago? He likes to drive, and if he hopes to have me or Roarke to play with awhile, he’d need a way to transport us. I’d go for a van or an all-terrain with a good-sized cargo area.”
“You got it.”
She turned back to the screen, and Cobbe’s picture. “He won’t want to waste time, so he might just seize an opportunity. Steal a vehicle, take over a suitable house, eliminate whoever’s inside. Stolen vehicles, missing persons.”
“I’ll take those,” Whitney told her.
“Thank you, sir. Peabody, we start with Cobbe’s known associates from the commander’s report. We dig down, find their known associates. We look at any with connections to New York, who have recent travel to New York, who have a third cousin with an ex-boyfriend whose pet schnauzer’s mother lives in New York.
“He’s slithered around law enforcement since he was a street rat pissing in a Dublin alley. You don’t do that unless you know who to use and when to use them.”
She shifted, scanned her cops. “Talk to your CIs. Weasels hear plenty. Your current cases are priority. Work this in. Work it here, work it at home, but work it. If you need any assistance on your case-load, you’ll get it.
“Officer Carmichael, uniform support will be key. I need you to work out a rotation. If you need any help with that, ask. Lastly, whatever you learn, I learn. Whatever you know, I know.
“Get hunting,” she said.
She stepped to Peabody’s desk. “Start on the associates. I’m going to write up the Tween interview and deal, then I’ll go by, inform the Modestos, see if I get anything else there. I’ll work from home.”
“I can work the Tween report in.”
“I’ve got it.”
Feeney tapped Eve’s shoulder. “Need a minute in your office.”
“Sure. Commander, thank you again.”
He merely gestured toward her office. She led the way, and got an uneasy feeling when Whitney closed the door.
Feeney scratched the back of his neck. “I’m putting a tracker on you.”
“Like hell.”
“Consider it an order,” Whitney told her.
“Sir—”
“An order,” he repeated.
Feeney let out a barely audible sigh. His baggy eyes offered sympathy. “I got a second one here for you to put on Roarke.”