J. Robb - Kindred In Death

He paused, listened, flicked a glance toward Eve. “Yes, that would have been her partner. I know the NYPSD appreciates your cooperation. They need to ask for more. I think it would be best if the lieutenant explains to you directly what she needs. Would you hold one moment?”

He tapped for hold, held out the ’link to Eve.

“Peach?” she said. “A university president named Peach?”

“Doctor Lapkoff.”

“Right.” Eve took the ’link, opened communications. Her first impression was of ice blue eyes so sharp they looked able to pierce steel. They beamed out of a cool, attractive face topped with short, straight brown hair.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was brisk, as no-nonsense as the do. “How can I help you?”

Within minutes, the bureaucratic wheels were turning. Eve passed the ’link back to Roarke. “She says she’ll have the data to me within an hour.”

“Then she will.”

“So I guess I better go back to work, and get ready for it.”

Back in her office, she started a match search with the Columbia list and MacMasters’s threat file, and a second for matches with his case files for the last five years. It would take time.

She used it to study the video again.

He’d stopped and started, she judged, a number of times. Each time Deena hesitated or went off script. Patience, focus. He had a message, and he wanted it delivered.

Blame the father, even though it was perfectly clear the victim spoke only under duress. He’d needed the words said. Daughter to father? Was that important? Child to parent? An issue or just the luck of the draw?

No, nothing was luck on this. Every choice deliberate. Direct to MacMasters, with no mention of the mother. Dad, Daddy-not the mother.

Never forgive. Hate. Never know why. Must pay.

Sins of the father? she wondered. Eye for an eye?

She sat, put her booted feet on the desk, shut her eyes.

The killer was older by a few years-maybe more-than the victim. Deliberate target, used to punish MacMasters. Blood kin.

Relative? Son?

Unacknowledged child?

Possible.

The cruelty of the act, the planning, the message sent-all pointed to intense offense. Against killer? Against relative or close connection to killer?

Note: Search MacMasters’s files for terminations, or arrests/wits/vics that resulted in death or extreme injuries. Add life sentences on and off planet.

Personal, extremely personal. This wasn’t business.

She opened her eyes when her unit signaled an incoming. Straightening, she brought up the data. Peach Lapkoff was a woman of her word.

That was the good part, Eve noted. The bad was just how many students at one freaking college managed to lose their IDs.

She needed more coffee.

With more fuel she began the laborious process of whittling down. Even as her unit reported no match on her initial search, she felt the pop.

“Powders, Darian, age nineteen. Lit major, second year. Replacement ID requested and paid for fifth of January, 2060.” She brought up her previous list, eyes narrowed. “And here you are again, Darian, hailing from Savannah. All data on current subject on screen.”

She swiveled, studied his ID. “Good looking guy, big, charming smile. You’re tailor made.”

Eve continued to study and wondered if she could be looking at a killer, or his dupe.

“One way to find out.”

She rose, tugged on the jacket she’d tossed over the back of her chair, then buzzed Roarke.

“Hey, I’ve got an angle I need to check out. I won’t be long.”

“Check out as in go out?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a possible. I want to work it now.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Waste time, and neither do you. I’ll drive.”

When he clicked off she blew out a breath.

No point in arguing. And she could do a secondary run on Powders while Roarke played chauffeur.

He beat her downstairs and opened the door under the bitter eye of Galahad just as the vehicle he’d remoted on auto cruised to the front of the house.

“Where are we going and why?”

“Columbia, on-campus housing to interview a possible suspect. More likely a potential dupe. But either way that’s not my vehicle.”

Roarke glanced at the slick two-seat convertible, top down, in glittering silver. “It’s mine, and since I’m driving and it’s a very nice evening, I want an appropriate ride.”

She frowned all the way to the passenger seat. “I have an appropriate ride, which you gave me.”

“Safe, loaded, and deliberately unattractive. Key in the address,” he suggested, and gunned it down the drive.

She hated to admit it, but it felt damn good, the night, the air, the speed. Reminding herself it wasn’t about fun, she started a deeper run on Darian Powders.

“Kid’s from Georgia, requested new ID in January. He’s the right age, and he’s got a pretty face.”

“Isn’t school out for the summer? Why would he be on campus in June?”

“He’s taking a short summer semester, and interning at Westling Publishing. Lit major. He’s completed his second year at the college, carries a 3.4 grade average. No criminal, but his brother-who’s still in Georgia-has two illegals pops. Minor shit. He’s got an uncle in New York, an editor at the publishing house, who has a son a couple years older than this one who took a harder illegals hit. Did six months, and another three in rehab. Bust was Brooklyn’s, so not MacMasters.”

“Hardly motive for what was done to that girl.”

“It’s a start,” Eve said, and kept working the run as she enjoyed the ride.

EVE FLASHED HER BADGE AT THE STERN-FACED droid riding the desk at the check-in for the dorm. She assumed they’d gone droid to try to avoid any possibility of bribery or human weakness with infractions. But she figured that area would be offset by the ability of probably half the residents in reprogramming or memory erase.

The droid gave Eve’s badge both a naked eye study and a red-beam scan.

“Purpose of business?”

“That would be filed under none of yours.”

In droid fashion, the machine dubbed “Ms. Sloop” according to its nameplate stared blankly during processing.

“I am responsible for the residents and visitors of this building.”

“I’m responsible for the residents and visitors of this city. I win.” Eve tapped her badge. “This requires you to answer one simple question: Is Darian Powders on the premises at this time?”

The droid blinked twice, then consulted its comp, though Eve imagined it had the information in its own circuits.

During the process, Eve wondered if the pinched-face, tight-lipped, slicked-back-bun look of the machine was an attempt by whoever was in charge to intimidate the residents into behaving.

Since the stern, disapproving facade reminded her of Summerset, she didn’t see how it could work.

“Resident Powders logged in at oh-three-thirty. He has not since logged out.”

“Okay then.” Eve turned toward the elevator.

“You are required to log in.”

Eve didn’t bother to glance back. “You scanned my badge. That logs me in.” Stepping on, she ordered the fourth floor. “Why can’t they use humans?” she complained to Roarke. “Droids aren’t nearly as much fun to screw with.”

“I don’t know. I found it mildly entertaining. And it did look considerably put out.”

“Maybe, but it’s already moved on.” Hands in pockets, she rocked on her heels. “A person would probably sulk or stew about it for a few minutes anyway. That’s more satisfying.”

When the doors opened, the noise slammed her eardrums, and made her eyes throb. Music-clashing styles, volumes, lyrics-pumped out of rooms with their doors propped open. Voices mixed with them, some raised in argument or debate, others singing along. People, possibly under the influence of pharmaceuticals and in various stages of dress, wandered the hallways.