“She’s the dead one,” Peabody shot back.
“And if she’d switched rooms with another maid that shift, she’d be alive, and they’d be dead.”
“McNab, you surprise me.” Eve kept her voice mild, and just faintly sarcastic. “That’s almost real detective thinking. According to hotel records, James Priory, a.k.a. Sylvester Yost, didn’t specify that particular room, or even that particular floor when he booked. This tells me, and is corroborated by the probability scan that I, just for the hell of it, ran before this meeting—just one of those pesky investigative chores we use over here in Homicide. This tells me,” she continued as both McNab and Peabody winced, “that Darlene French was not a particular target. Which in turns tells me that it’s unlikely she had any particular purpose or meaning other than being alive and in that room.”
“Lieutenant, why does anyone pay a couple million to have someone killed at random?”
“Let’s add to that,” Eve said with a nod toward McNab. “Why does anyone choose a hammer who’s known to every law enforcement agency on or off planet, a hammer who will be identified within hours, to do the job? Why is it arranged that the job takes place in a landmark facility that will stir the scent for the media until drool forms?”
When there was silence, Feeney finally sighed. “I don’t know, Dallas, you try to raise them right, give them the benefit of your experience, and they sit like idiots. Roarke,” he said. “Roarke’s the target.”
It was the why that worried her. Why was someone going to this trouble and expense to signal Roarke? Here’s what I can do, here’s what I can dump right at your front door.
What was the point?
The media would buzz, and he would spin the swarm around. The hotel itself might take a few cancellations and would receive twice that much in new reservations due to the morbid curiosity and sick excitement factors.
Some employees might resign. Others would scramble to fill the slots.
In the end it would cost him nothing, and in the short-term only garner him publicity he knew exactly how to turn to his advantage.
Unless, whoever hired Yost knew the way Roarke worked. Inside. Unless they knew how having an innocent young girl killed on his property, under his employ would work on him.
The price Roarke would pay was personal. And if the motive had been personal as well . . . Yes, that worried her.
Her motivation for bringing Yost to justice was twofold now. Justice for Darlene French. Answers for Roarke.
At her desk she studied Yost’s file again. No family. No known associates. No known address. No nothing, she thought in disgust. For the first time in her career she knew the identity of the killer, had a solid case of physical evidence, every i dotted toward conviction, all within twenty-four hours of the crime.
And had not a single string with which to tug him closer to hand.
No leads. No avenues.
“Where do you sleep, you son of a bitch? Where do you eat? What do you do with yourself when you’re off the clock?”
She pushed away, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
Low-key, she thought, letting the image of his face, his eyes, his mouth, form in her head. Nothing to grab attention. You’re a loner. Nice quiet homes in nice neighborhoods. Gotta have more than one. You’re a traveling man. Personal transpo? Probably, probably. But nothing flashy. Solid, dependable, discreet. Classic. Like the music you kill by.
But if you drove into New York, you didn’t use the garage facilities at the hotel.
Meat and potatoes, she thought, remembering his hotel meal. Basic, expensive. The clothes he’d worn, in and out, had met the same criteria. As had his luggage.
Luggage.
She sat up, ordered the file disc that contained his check-in.
“Yeah, yeah, one business traveler’s wheel-on. Basic and expensive. And new. Looks brand-spanking-new to me. Computer, enlarge sector twelve through twenty-eight, magnify twenty percent.”
&
nbsp; WORKING . . .
The portion of the image that showed the suitcase standing tidily at Yost’s feet popped. She could see no sign of wear on the heavy-duty black leather, none of the flaws that showed after even minimal trips through the rigors of handling or security checks.
“Enlarge sector six through ten, this image.”
WORKING . . .