“If Skinner took a couple of pops at your ego, it’s because he knew it was a good target. That’s what cops do. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”
“He made it clear, while Hayes stood there with a hand inside his coat and on his weapon, that my father was garbage and by association so am I. And that it was long past time for my comeuppance, so to speak.”
“Did he say anything that led to him ordering Weeks killed?”
“On the contrary, he twice pointed the finger at me. Full of barely restrained fury and seething emotion. You could almost believe he meant it. I don’t think he’s well,” Roarke continued and crushed out his cigarette. “Temper put a very unhealthy color in his face, strained his breathing. I’ll have to take a pass through his medical records.”
“I want to take a pass at his wife. Angelo agreed, after some minor complaints, to set it up so we can double-team her later this afternoon. Meanwhile, Peabody’s on Skinner, between us we’ll track down the uniform, and Feeney’s running names. Somebody on your security staff worked that bypass. We find out who, we link them back to Skinner and get them into interview, we change the complexion of this. Maybe put it away before ILE comes in.”
She glanced back toward the suite as the ’link beeped. “Are we okay now?”
“We seem to be.”
“Good. Maybe that’s Angelo with the setup for Belle Skinner.” She moved past Roarke to the ’link. Rather th
an Darcia’s exotic face, Feeney’s droopy one blipped on screen.
“Might have something for you here. Zita Vinter, hotel security. She was in Control between twenty-one-thirty and twenty-three hundred last night. Crossed her with your list. Popped to Vinter, Detective Carl, Atlanta cop under Skinner. Line of duty during the botched bust. Vinter’s wife was pregnant with their second kid—a son, Marshall, born two months after his death. Older kid was five. Daughter, Zita.”
“Bull’s-eye. What sector is she in now?”
“She didn’t come in today. Didn’t call in either, according to her supervisor. Got her home address. Want me to ride with you?”
She started to agree, then looked back at Roarke. “No, I got it. See what else you can find on her, okay? Maybe you can tag Peabody when the keynote crap’s over. She’s good at digging background details. Owe you one, Feeney. Let me have the address.”
After she’d ended transmission, Eve hooked her thumbs in her front pockets and looked at Roarke. “You wouldn’t know where 22 Athena Boulevard might be, would you?”
“I might be able to find it, yes.”
“I bet.” She picked up her palm-link from the desk, stuck it in her pocket. “I’m not riding in a limo to go interview a suspect. It’s unprofessional. Bad enough I’m taking some civilian wearing a fancy suit with me.”
“Then I’ll just have to come up with some alternate transportation.”
“While you’re at it, dig up your file on Zita Vinter, security sector.”
He drew out his palm PC as they started out. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Lieutenant.”
“Yeah, yeah.” She stepped into the private elevator while he ordered something called a GF2000 brought to a garage slot. “Technically, I should contact Angelo and update her.”
“No reason you can’t. Once we’re on the way.”
“No reason. Saves time this way.”
“That’s your story, darling, and we’ll stick to it. Vinter, Zita,” he began as she scowled at him. “Twenty-eight. Two years with Atlanta PSD, then into private security. She worked for one of my organizations in Atlanta. Clean work record. Promoted to A Level over two years ago. She put in for the position here six months ago. She’s single, lives alone. Lists her mother as next of kin. Her employment jacket’s clean.”
“When did you contract for this convention deal?”
“Just over six months ago,” he said as they stepped off into the garage. “It was one of the incentives to have several of the facilities complete.”
“How much do you want to bet Skinner’s kept in close contact with his dead detective’s daughter over the years? Angelo finesses a warrant for Vinter’s ’link records, we’re going to find transmissions to and from Atlanta. And not just to her mother.”
When he stopped, put his PC away, she stared. “What the hell is this?”
Roarke ran a hand over the sleek chrome tube of the jet-bike. “Alternate transportation.”
It looked fast and it looked mean, a powerful silver bullet on two silver wheels. She continued to stare as Roarke offered her a crash helmet.
“Safety first.”