As he thought it through, Roarke sat on the edge of her command center. “He might look for one near here, to help him keep track of our comings and goings. Or closer to Central, to mind you. And still possibly near my headquarters.”
“I hadn’t thought of that one.”
“He’d need a vehicle. He could rent, even buy. He might boost one, but that’s risky unless he’s so confident he thinks he can meet his goal before a stolen vehicle’s reported.”
“We’re looking at all of that. And missing persons—Whitney took that. It’s a long shot, but he could just take over a house, kill whoever’s inside.”
Roarke stared into his coffee. “Not a long shot at all. There’s a good possibility. But you won’t have a missing person’s report to check, not right off in any case. With the right contacts he could target someone. You force them to contact work, if work they have, or friends, family, whatever it is. Need to go out of town, family emergency, work, whatever suits. A curious neighbor? How do you do, I’m Joe’s cousin, friend, associate, what have you. Doing some house-sitting for him while he’s on a business trip.”
“That could hold, for a while.”
“Awhile’s all he thinks he needs. But he’d need the contact. He couldn’t just pluck a house that suits his needs and has a convenient sort of tenant or owner inside also suiting them.”
Eyes narrowed, Eve followed that path. “The tenant or owner would have to be someone who’s a bad guy himself, or involved on the fringes, or a victim. Goddamn it, why pay when you can just take? And if that’s how he’s working it, it closes off an angle of investigation.”
“I have contacts of my own,” Roarke reminded her. “I’ll do what I can. One more possibility. He has a previous employer who has a property. He agrees to do the next job at a discount for use of the house for a week or two. There’d have to be trust there, of a sort, but it simplifies. It’s cleaner. I’ll, ah, reach out, as you say.”
“Careful with your reach.”
“Always, darling.”
“We’re checking on private shuttles—that’s his usual. And he can pilot, so he might have come over on his own. Either way, if he booked a shuttle, he’d have canceled or postponed the return.”
“Well then, we have quite a bit to keep us busy.” He rose. “I’ll start with that reaching out. You’ll copy those files to my unit.”
“Did it on the way home. Roarke, if you use the unregistered, I need to know.”
“Not for this in any case.” He topped off his coffee from the pot. “I’ll use my office for now, but at some point, I’ll likely just use your auxiliary.”
“You don’t especially want me to hear the conversations with these contacts.”
“I don’t think you especially want to hear the conversations. I’ll give you the gist of them, and whatever bears fruit.”
Good enough, she thought as he went into his office.
She opened operations, and got down to work.
It shouldn’t have surprised her Summerset had already sent his day’s itinerary. What did surprise her was how many stops he made.
Greengrocer, cheesemonger, fishmonger—what the hell was a monger—flower stall, dry goods (were there wet goods?), and on and on.
She sent the list to Uniform Carmichael with orders to assign officers to track and question.
She read Whitney’s report, making her own notes along the way. She did the same with Mira’s updated profile, and there had to fight for objectivity when reading conclusions in stark terms.
Cobbe’s need to eliminate Roarke is more than a goal. It is his mission, central to his identity. Only cowardice and lack of clear opportunity, in addition to a desire to build up his own status and wealth, has stopped him from acting on this since their last altercation.
As long as Roarke exists, Cobbe remains unable to claim his most essential desire. He cannot be Patrick Roarke’s true son, as he perceives Roarke stands in his way.
Moreover, the fact Roarke rejected this father, replaced him with another, demands retribution. Roarke built his life, successfully, lives openly with the fruits of that success—businesses, home, wife, family, friendships—and commands respect, all while carrying the name Roarke—the name Cobbe desires above all; this seeds envy.
Unable to acknowledge envy, as this is an admission Roarke is better than he, possesses—beyond the paternity—what he himself lacks, Cobbe knows only his hatred.
His fear of Roarke, the boy and the man who consistently bested or outwitted him, thereby denying him the love and respect from the “father,” feeds his hatred.
By his nature, and by this need, Cobbe concluded that seeing the object of his lifelong hate, and fear, this obstacle to his greatest wish, on scene after a fresh kill was a sign that this was the time and place to fulfill his destiny.
All true, Eve thought, and if she let herself feel too much, all terrifying.
The solution: Think like a cop.
Cobbe’s mission: Eliminate Roarke.
But the mission itself was his weakness.
He’d taken a risk, and made a mistake, with the dead-cat ploy. Hell, he’d made a mistake from the jump by showing himself to Roarke. That was ego—another weakness. If he’d kept to the shadows, he’d have had a better shot at taking Roarke out. But he’d wanted that moment.
Here I am, you fuck, and I’m coming for you.
Sure, he’d been cagey enough to use an amplifier on Summerset—but Summerset still knew he’d been tailed.
Why hadn’t he tried to take out Summerset, who he’d have seen as a skinny old man? Biding his time? Unlikely. Hoping for information, for routine to establish, that she’d buy.
He’d gotten a cat out of it, then rashly used that information to taunt.
Pattern?
Frowning, she went back over the file, trying to find other known instances that might fit.
“Nothing, nothing, nothing,” she muttered. “So …” She looked back at her board. “New pattern. Not new, not really. Roarke pattern.”
Rising, she put a secondary board together. She poured more coffee, started a secondary book.
While she let that cook in her brain, she took a portion of the searches for real estate.
She snatched up her ’link when it signaled, saw Baxter on the readout.
“Give me something.”
“How about the Parkview Hotel? Penthouse suite, under the name Reginald J. Patrick. He used a Brit passport and a One Universe credit account.”
“Where’s the hotel?” She pulled up a map even as she asked. “Never mind, I’ve got it. Just a couple blocks from Modesto’s residence.”
“Small, pricey, quiet hotel. No doorman, but good security. We’re getting the security feeds, talking to staff. They remember him. He checked in two days before the hit, checked out the morning after.”
“Good, get all you can. Get the sweepers to process his room.”
“It’s been cleaned.”
“Get them in there. Find out when and how he booked—how long he booked. When he ate, what he ate, what he wore, when he went out, when he came back. What he said, who he said it to.”