“No, they don’t. There’s some wear on them.”
“Can’t give you weight, wouldn’t be close to accurate. Can’t ID the gloves, not confirmed. But I’ve got them down to three most likelies. All common, middle-of-the-road brands.”
He eased down on a stool. “We got a little piece of him, left temple. Enhanced and analyzed, the computer’s split between Caucasian and mixed-race. Can’t give you sex, we just don’t have enough of an image. Hands and feet skew small side for male, but not much. Height tall side for female, but not much. And that could be augmented with lifts.”
“So we eliminate black, Hispanic, Asian. And we’ve got a tall woman with biggish feet or a guy with smallish hands and feet, Caucasian or mixed race.”
“Of indeterminate age. Right-handed. Probability ninety-six and change from my run on the handwriting. Used the right on the security panel, and the right to pull what we gotta figure was the stunner from the pocket. The crime lab hits about the same probability on that.”
“Okay. Okay, that’s more than I had when I came in. What about the vic’s ’links and comps?”
“I’ve got McNab on them,” he said, referring to Peabody’s main man. “We got communications with her office, with clients—he’ll have a rundown for you, with her mother and sister on Christmas, and with Discretion—that’s a licensed companion agency. She ordered up an LC for Christmas.”
“At her place?”
“Nope, arranged it at The Four Seasons. She booked the room herself, stayed there Christmas Eve, had the LC come at midnight.”
“I’ll follow up on it.”
“He’s going through her computers—home, office, her tablets, PPCs, the works. She did a ’link conference the day she died with her law partner and some support staff.”
“Yeah, that jibes with what I got from Stern.”
“Communication’s light, home and office, since Christmas. Pretty usual for the holiday week. Got three v-mails, her pocket ’link, and one on the office ’link from the guys she was scheduled to meet with for dinner and got murdered instead. Pretty steamed on the third one, but that slides in, too. He’ll tag me if he finds anything that zips. So far we’ve got no threats, no arguments, no suspicious communications or sorry, wrong numbers.”
He drank some coffee. “How you holding, kid?”
“I don’t know. Haven’t thought about that yet. I can’t figure it, Feeney, I can’t turn it so I get clear focus. She didn’t mean anything to me. She did her job, I did my job. I didn’t like her way of doing her job, but she probably didn’t like the way I do mine. And she’s dead because we faced off over the jobs?”
“People kill for any damn reason, Dallas. Who knows that better than you and me? Sit down.”
“I’ve got to—”
“Sit. I still outrank you.”
“Ah, hell.” She sat, sulked.
“Anybody make a move on you? A personal move?”
“What?” Her head came up. If she’d been the type to blush, she’d have been scarlet. “No. Jesus, I don’t put myself in that sort of situation, and . . . there’s Roarke.”
“Webster did.”
“Christ, Feeney.”
“I’m not saying Webster’s still pining for you—’specially since he’s off-planet near as much as he’s on, fiddling with that girl cop on Olympus. But he put some moves on you a while back. He’s a cop, a good cop even if he went IAB, and he’s no killer. But there were moves—word gets around. Anybody else?”
“No.” And she really wanted to change the angle. Now.
“Women put moves on women, too.” Feeney tapped his finger in the air at her. “Maybe you didn’t take it that way, or notice.”
“Fucking fuck fuck.” She stood, turned around in a circle. Sat again. “No. I’d notice.”
“Okay. Anybody hanging around more than they should? Just being friendly, or doing you a favor? Somebody you see, but don’t see.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Hadn’t she asked herself the same, a half dozen times already? But he was right to ask her, make her dig in and think. “No. Nothing that springs. We’re covering the ground. Mira’s going over correspondence with the shrink eye. I’ve got Dickhead looking for anybody at the lab who maybe got dinged by the vic in court.”
“That’s a good angle,” Feeney considered.