Whitney stared down at the stills, and his eyes went grim. "Misadventure, my ass. It's obviously a torture murder."
"One defenseless girl brutalized by six men. And they got away with it clean. Men who can do that to a child are men who could brag about it. I believe those close to them knew, and when they were killed, one by one, at least one person decided Roarke and Summerset were responsible."
Tibble turned the still of Marlena's body facedown. He'd been away from the streets long enough to know he'd be haunted by that image. "And you don't believe that, Lieutenant? You want us to believe that those six deaths were unrelated, but that our current madman believes otherwise. And you want us to believe he's killing now, framing Summerset, and all to exact revenge on Roarke?"
"That's exactly right. I want you to believe that the man Mira described to me as a sadistic sociopath with a holy mission is using all the skill at his disposal to ruin Roarke. Framing Summerset was a miscalculation, and you'll see when Mira has completed her test evaluations on him. She's told me in a preliminary interview that Summerset is not only incapable of this range of violence, but is appalled by violence. The circumstantial evidence compiled against him is obvious enough for a cross-eyed five-year-old to see through."
"I prefer to withhold judgment on that until I see Mira's completed evaluation," Whitney told her.
"I can give you mine," she said, and threw her weight on Summerset's end of the scale. "The security discs at the Luxury Towers were doctored. We know this. However, the lobby sector—which clearly shows Summerset's entrance into the building—was untouched. Why? McNab has the disc of the twelfth floor being analyzed by the EDD compu-unit. I'm confident that we'll discover a blip for the period when Summerset exited the elevator and waited for Ms. Morrell. And again, in the lobby sector where he's indicated he left the building at approximately twelve forty."
"The extent of tampering you're indicating would require very specialized skill and equipment."
"Yes, sir. So does jamming transmissions into Cop Central. Religion plays a vital part in the motive and method of these killings. The evidence points to a strong, if twisted, attachment to Catholicism. Summerset isn't Catholic nor is he particularly religious."
"A man's faith," Whitney put in, "is often a private and intimate matter."
"Not with this man it isn't. For him, it's a driving force. I have more. This morning Detective McNab, who was assigned to me from EDD, found what he referred to as an echo on my 'link transmission from the perpetrator. The transmission did not originate in my home, but someone went to a great deal of trouble to make it appear as if it did."
Whitney said nothing until he'd scanned the report Eve offered. "This is good work."
"One of the Riley brothers did a stint on security for a large electronics firm—and he's also made several trips to New York in the last ten years. I'd like to pursue that angle."
"Are you planning on going to Ireland, Lieutenant?" Training prevented her from gaping.
"No, sir. I can access any necessary data from here."
Whitney tapped a finger on the reports. "I'd consider it, seriously consider it."
• • •
Press conferences rarely put Eve in a cheery mood. The free-for-all at the media center was no exception. It was bad enough to be ordered to stand in front of a sea of reporters and tap dance around what was, what should be, and what wasn't, tricky enough when the questions batted to her dealt with her professional area. But many of the questions during the slated hour took a personal curve. She had to field them quickly, skillfully, and without breaking a sweat.
She knew damn well reporters could smell sweat.
"Lieutenant Dallas, as primary investigator, have you questioned Roarke in connection with these murders?"
"Roarke has cooperated with the department."
"Was his cooperation elicited by the primary, or by his wife?"
Snake-eyed, flat-faced son of a bitch, Eve thought, staring the reporter down and ignoring the autotronic cameras that slid spiderlike in her direction. "Roarke volunteered his statements and his assistance from the initiation of this investigation."
"Isn't it true that your prime suspect is in Roarke's employ and resides in your home?"
"At this point in the investigation we have no prime suspect." That brought on the growl from the wolf pack, the shouted questions, the demands. She waited them out. "Lawrence Charles Summerset was interviewed formally and has voluntarily undergone testing. As a result of this, the department and the primary are now pursuing other investigative channels."
"What is your response to the supposition that Summerset murdered three people on orders from his employer?"
The shouted question from the back had the effect of smothering the shouts. For the first time in nearly an hour, there was silence. Even as Chief Tibble stepped forward, Eve held up a hand. "I'd like to answer that." Fury might have clawed at her throat, but her voice was cold and level. "My response is that suppositions of that nature have no place in this forum. They belong in tiny rooms where they can be discussed by tiny minds. Such a supposition when voiced publicly, particularly by a member of the media, falls into the category of criminal negligence. Such an innuendo, with no facts or evidence to support it, is an insult not only to the men involved, but to the dead. I have nothing more to say here."
She stepped around Tibble and off the platform. She could hear the questions being shouted out at him, and his calm, reasonable voice answering. But she had blood in her eye and a bitter taste in her mouth.
"Dallas! Dallas, hold on." Nadine Furst rushed after her, her camera operator in hot pursuit. "Give me two minutes, come on. Two lousy minutes."
Eve turned on her, knowing that it would be a miracle if she held on to her temper for two seconds. "Don't get in my face here, Nadine."
"Look, that last one was over the line, no question. But you've got to expect to take some heat here."