“He said almost the same thing to me yesterday,” Eve murmured. “He’d never forget her face. Her eyes.”
“Dead eyes are spooky. They can stay with you.”
“Yeah, hers have stayed with me.” She shifted her gaze to Feeney’s. “But nobody saw her face until I got there that night, Feeney. The hood had fallen over it. Nobody saw her face before I
did. Except the murderer.”
“Jesus, Dallas. You don’t seriously think some little media creep like Morse is slicing throats in his off time. He probably added it for impact, to make himself more important.”
Now her lips curved, just a little, in a smile more feral than amused. “Yeah, he likes being important, doesn’t he? He likes being the focus. What do you do when you’re an ambitious, unethical, second-string reporter, Feeney, and you can’t find a hot story?”
He let out a low whistle. “You make one.”
“Let’s run his background. See where our pal comes from.”
It didn’t take Feeney long to pull up a basic sheet.
C. J. Morse had been born in Stamford, Connecticut, thirty-three years before. That was the first surprise. Eve would have pegged him as several years younger. His mother, deceased, had been head of computer science at Carnegie Melon, where her son had graduated with double majors in broadcasting and compuscience.
“Smart little fucker,” Feeney commented. “Twentieth in his class.”
“I wonder if it was good enough.”
His employment record was varied. He’d bumped from station to station. One year at a small affiliate near his hometown. Six months with a satellite in Pennsylvania. Nearly two years at a top-rated channel in New Los Angeles, then a stretch in a half-baked independent in Arizona before heading back East. Another gig in Detroit before hitting New York. He’d worked on All News 60, then made the lateral transfer to Channel 75, first in the social data unit, then into hard news.
“Our boy doesn’t hold down a job long. Channel 75’s his record with three years. And there’s no mention of his father in family data.”
“Just mama,” Feeney agreed. “A successful, highly positioned mama.” A dead mama, she thought. They’d have to take time to check on how she died.
“Let’s check criminal.”
“No record,” Feeney said, frowning at the screen. “A clean-living boy.”
“Go into juvie. Well, well,” she said, reading the data. “We’ve got ourselves a sealed record here, Feeney. What do you suppose our clean-living boy did in his misspent youth bad enough that somebody used an arm to have it sealed up?”
“Won’t take me long to find out.” He was cheering up, fingers ready to dance. “I’ll want my own equipment, and a green light from the commander.”
“Do it. And dig into each of those job positions. Let’s see if there was any trouble. I think I’ll take a swing by Channel 75, have a nice, fresh chat with our boy.”
“We’re going to need more to take him down than a possible match with the psych profile.”
“Then we’ll get it.” She shrugged into her shoulder harness. “You know, if I hadn’t had such a personal beef with him, I might have seen it before. Who benefited from the murders? The media.” She locked in her weapon. “And the first murder took place when Nadine was conveniently off planet on assignment. Morse could step right in.”
“And Metcalf?”
“The fucker was on scene almost before I was. It pissed me off, but it never clicked. He was so damn cool. And then who finds Kirski’s body? Who’s on air in minutes giving his personal report?”
“It doesn’t make him a killer. That’s what the PA’s office is going to say.”
“They want a connection. Ratings,” she said as she headed for the door. “There’s the goddamn connection.”
chapter nineteen
Eve did a quick pass through the newsroom, studied the viewing screens. There was no sign of Morse, but that didn’t worry her. It was a big complex. And he had no reason to hide, no reason to worry.
She wasn’t going to give him one.
The plan she’d formulated on the trip over was simple. Not as satisfying as hauling him out by his camera-friendly hair and into lockup, but simpler.