“He’s desperate, and he’s pissed, and he overthinks. He’s so worried about covering his ass, he keeps exposing it. He needs to stay dead, needs to collect his fee. Hard to do both. Killing Powell and destroying the body identified as his own was stupid. It prevents positive ID, but it also turns the trail around and heads it right back at him. He’s the only one who’d want that evidence destroyed.”
“Then he tries to take you out.”
“Like I said, he’s pissed. And he’s desperate. And you know what he is, under all this espionage, artsy, woman-sniffing bullshit, Peabody? He’s a screwup. The kind that keeps making bigger, splashier mistakes to cover up the last one. He thinks he’s a stone-cold killer, but he’s a selfish, spoiled little boy playing—what’s that guy’s name—James Bond—then having a tantrum when he doesn’t quite pull it off.”
“He may not be stone-cold, but he’s killed four people, knocked you around pretty good, and put an assistant director of the HSO in the hospital.”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t dangerous. Kids having temper tantrums are pretty damn dangerous. Scare the hell out of me.”
“So, according to your theory, we have a cranky, immature, HSO-trained killer.”
“Pretty much.”
Peabody blew out a breath that fluttered her ruler-straight bangs. “That is pretty scary. How do we catch him?”
“Working on that.” Eve started to prop her feet on the desk, had the twinge of revolting muscles shoot straight through her body. “Shit.”
“You’d better work on those bruises.”
“I don’t have bruises on my brain. I can still think. Let’s get the rest of the team in here, civilians included, and kick this ball around.”
“You want Ewing in on this?”
“She was married to him for two years. It might have been a convenience to him, but she still would’ve learned something about him. Habits, fantasies, hangouts. If Sparrow lives, regains consciousness, and opts to share information on Bissel, that may help, but right now, Reva Ewing’s our best source.”
“You’re going to tell her that the husband she was accused of murdering is not only alive, in your opinion, but is the one who set her up?”
“If she can’t deal with it, she’s no help and we’re no worse off. Let’s see if she inherited any of her mother’s spine.”
Feeney came in muttering figures and command codes into a PPC. His chin was stubbled with ginger and gray and the bags under his eyes could’ve held a week’s marketing for a family of three—but there was a gleam in them.
“Bad time to interrupt, kid,” he said to Eve. “We’re on the verge.”
“There’s another prong to this investigation, and that may be on the verge, too. Where are the others?”
“Roarke and Tokimoto are finishing up running a series. Don’t want to walk away in the middle of that, not after what it’s taken to get there. We got one of Kade’s units as clean as it’s going to get. McNab and Ewing are just about done reinstalling some . . .”
He stopped, pursed his lips as he finally lifted his head and took a good look at her. “Said you got slammed around. They meant it. Ought to put some ice on that eye.”
“Is it going black? Damn it.” She pressed her fingers gingerly along the top edge of her cheekbone, and felt the bolt of pain right down to her toes. “I took a blocker. Isn’t that enough?”
Peabody came out of the kitchen with an ice bandage. “If you let me put this on it, it’ll sting a minute, and look stupid. But it’ll decrease the bruising and swelling. You may not end up with a full shiner.”
“Just do it, don’t talk about it.”
Eve set her teeth while Peabody fixed the bandage. The sting drowned out the throbbing, which wasn’t that much of an improvement.
“Ouch,” McNab commented with a sympathetic wince as he strolled in. “Heard you lost your ride, too.”
“Wasn’t much of a loss. Where’s Ewing?”
“Right behind me. Just had to make a pit stop. Okay if I pump some fuel? I’m empty.”
“There’s cobbler,” Peabody called out as he was already heading to the kitchen. “Apple-cranberry.”
“Cobbler?” Feeney repeated.
“Jeez. Go ahead.” Eve threw up her hands. “Eat, drink, be merry. Every multiple homicide investigation should have cobbler.”