“I appreciate it.”
“Peabody, I want you to check that all the civilians we brought in are now secure. And it’s that needle-in-the-hay-pile thing—”
“Stack.”
“Whatever. Run the initials of the yet to be identified against every fricking lawyer in the city. Start with ones who advertise, who specialize in personal injury and wrongful-death suits.”
“That’s a teeny little needle in a lot of haystacks, but I’m on it.”
With only Eve and Roarke left in the room, Whitney rose. “Lieutenant, HSO is inquiring about your investigation.”
She actually felt her spine turn to a rod of steel at the mention of the Homeland Security Organization. “Inquiring, sir, or looking to take it over?”
“Inquiring with the concept, we’ll say, of taking it over.”
“It’s a murder investigation, Commander.”
“That could be considered domestic terrorism. And, in fact, is being labeled that by much of the media.”
Part of her brain might have been raging Politics, fucking politics, but her tone held cool and even. “That may be, sir, but the evidence clearly indicates the motive here is murder, and targeted murder. The rest is, or was, nothing but an attempt to cover the specific target.”
“It may be possible to tap some HSO resources without them taking the lead.”
“Respectfully, sir, I feel we don’t have time to jump through those hoops. If I come to believe those resources are more valuable than that time, or that we are unable to move the investigation forward, I would welcome the assistance.”
“Agreed. It’s your case, Lieutenant. And you’re clear for as much overtime as you deem necessary. The proper paperwork on same will have to be submitted in a timely manner.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shut them down, Dallas. Shut them down.”
When he walked out, Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Fucking HSO. Fucking paperwork. Fucking fuck.”
“Have you eaten anything since this morning?”
“For Christ’s sake.”
He pulled a nutribar out of his pocket. “Eat this and I won’t add fucking nagging to your list.”
“Fine, fine.” She ripped off the wrapper, took an annoyed bite. Maybe the fact that something that bland tasted delicious meant she needed the damn nutri part of it.
“And since you won’t actually want cop coffee, you could drink a bottle of water during this next meeting. I’m with Feeney, but I’d like to know if you go into the field.”
He caught her face in his hands, kissed her, firm and hard, then left her.
On a sigh, she polished off the nutribar—half wished she had another—as she gave the board one more study.
In the lounge, she saw Lowenbaum at one of the tables with another cop.
Vince Patroni—mid-forties, dark hair cut high and tight over a sharp-boned face—brooded into a cup of cop coffee. Since Roarke had it right, she went for water, and was almost disappointed when Vending burped out the bottle without a hitch.
“Lieutenant Dallas,” Lowenbaum began as Eve and Patroni eyed each other. “Tactical Officer Patroni.”
“The lieutenant says you’re sure, a hundred percent, on Mac.”
“That’s right.”
“And his kid, his girl.”