She had the lab reports, the ME’s, the sweepers’. She had statements from witnesses, next of kin, suspects, neighbors. She had the timelines. She had her own notes, her own reports, and now a mountain of background data on those who remained on her shortlist.
She would go over them all again, and she would do more leg work, more interviews. She’d dig deeper, wider. But he would beat her to the next. Her gut told her he’d beat her in the short run, and someone else would die before she caught up.
He’d made mistakes. She sipped coffee and stared at the board. The notes were a mistake. That was pride and a kind of glee. He had a need not only to toot his own horn, but to do it with a flourish. Notice me! See how smart I am, see what excellent taste I have.
But the paper could be traced, could give her a list of names to pursue.
The basket of peaches was another. That was arrogance. I can walk right out of here, leaving the brutalized dead behind, and eat a nice ripe peach.
There might be other mistakes. She would pick everything apart until she found them. He would make other mistakes, because however smart he was, he was cocky.
She looked toward the open door when she heard the sound of footfalls, and her forehead creased.
“Hey,” she said, as Feeney walked in. The neatly pressed shirt told h
er his wife had handed it to him out of the closet. The broken-in shoes said he’d gotten away from her before Mrs. Feeney could nag him into putting on a less disreputable pair.
He’d probably combed his hair, but it was already frizzing out in its usual wiry thatch of ginger and silver. There was a little nick on his chin because he claimed a man couldn’t shave proper unless he used an actual razor.
“Got your message,” he said.
“It was late, that’s why I dumped it to voice mail. I didn’t mean for you to come around this morning, go out of your way.”
“It’s only out of my way if there aren’t any danishes back there.”
“Probably are. If not there, somewhere else.”
Taking that as invitation, he walked back to the kitchen. She could hear him scanning the menu, giving a grunt of approval as he found something that pleased him, calling it up.
He came back in with a pastry and an enormous mug of coffee. “So,” he said, and sat, studying the board as she had. “He’s two for two.”
“Yeah, and I’m batting zero. Clipped the ball a couple times, but it keeps curving foul. Once he hits again, the media’s going to pick up the scent, and we’ll have a holy mess on our hands: ‘Deadly Mimic Stalking New York.’ ‘Chameleon Killer Baffles Police.’ They love that shit.”
Feeney scratched his cheek, ate more pastry. “Public does, too. Sick bastards.”
“I’ve got a lot of data, a lot of angles. Thing is, I pull one line and six more drop down. I can push Whitney for more manpower, but you know how it goes. I keep it low profile, and the budget only stretches so far. Once it breaks and people start screaming, politics come into play and I can stretch it further.”
“EDD’s got more manpower, more funds,” he finished.
“I’ve got no direct need for EDD on this. The research and runs are standard stuff, nothing fancy. I’ve got no ’links or security to probe. But . . .”
“My boys can always use the practice.” Feeney called his detectives and drones ‘boys,’ no matter how their skin was shaped.
“I’d appreciate it. It would free me up for interviews and fieldwork. I started thinking last night: This guy, he’s careful and he’s precise. Look at the vic photos—the old ones, and his. Positioning, basic build and coloring of the vics, method of death. Everything. They’re good copies, careful copies. So how do you get so good?”
Feeney polished off the danish, gulped coffee. “You practice. I’ll run that myself, through IRCCA, see if we get a pop.”
“It won’t be exact,” she said, grateful. “I’ve got a hit on the first, and it’s not exact. But when I did the run I was only looking for the one style. Now we’ve got two styles, and the potential for others. He’s too careful for an exact match—he might do it that way, but he’d change it after. Wouldn’t leave the scene precisely as he intended to leave the ones he’d make public.”
“Doesn’t want to show off until he’s got it down to a science,” Feeney said with a nod.
“Yeah. Any that were exact, he’d get rid of the bodies. Bury them, dump them. But he’s not a kid. Not twenty. He’s mature, and he didn’t start killing with Wooton. He’s been at this awhile.”
“I’ll work both styles, and whatever else you think he might go for.”
“Everybody on my shortlist, but one I haven’t pinned yet,” she said, thinking of Breen, “travels. The States, Europe especially. They get around, and they get around well. First-class. If he’s on that shortlist, the world’s been his fucking playground.”
“Send me the files.”