of these sixty-three is his dupe. Or . . . it could be he had a partner.”
“He works alone. A partner means you have to trust. Who could he trust this much? No loose ends if you work alone. I’m going to bet one of those students had their ID stolen or lost it within the last six months. He clones it, replaces the photo with one of himself, tweaks the basic data if necessary. If Deena gets a buzz, and checks, she’s going to find he’s registered as a student. For now, we run them. Dot every i. Tomorrow, we check to see if any of them replaced their ID. Take the top thirty,” she ordered. “I’ll take the rest. Work here or at home, and report to my home office in the morning, oh-seven-hundred.”
“Where are you going?”
“I want to go back to the scene, walk through it, then I’ll pick up the runs at home. Copy the data from Columbia to my home unit.”
“Okay. If I hit anything, I’ll let you know.”
Eve downed more coffee, and tagged Roarke. “Any progress?”
“This won’t be quick or easy.”
“I’m done here. I’m going to go back to the scene, do a walk-through, then take the rest home.”
“I’ll meet you in the garage.”
“Not quick or easy, remember?”
“With the captain’s blessing, I’m having some of the units sent to my lab at home. I’ve got better equipment. Five minutes.”
He clicked off.
She loaded up what she needed, sent copies of all reports, notes, files to her home unit. On the way to the garage she took a tag from one of the officers on the knock-on-doors. All residents on the victim’s block had been located and interviewed. And not one of them had seen anyone enter or exit the MacMasters home, save Deena herself, over the weekend.
Maybe Baxter and his faithful aide, Trueheart, would have better luck, she thought. Or she and Peabody would get a hit from the morning circuit of the park. But when a man left no trace of himself at a rape murder, when he took hours to complete the task and left nothing behind, the likelihood of him being careless enough to be seen with his victim was low.
Still, someone somewhere had seen them. Remembering was a different matter.
They’d walked, talked, eaten, played in the city, and over a number of weeks. She only had to find one venue, one person, one crack in the whole to pry open.
She walked to her car, leaned back against the trunk as she took out her memo book to key in more notes.
Columbia. Student ID.
Georgia. Southern accent.
Truth or lie? Why truth, why lie?
Missing pocket ’link, PPC—possible e-diary?—handbag. Other contents of handbag important? Protection and trophy?
She looked up when Roarke crossed the garage. “When you worked a mark, did you ever fake an accent?”
“A cop shop’s an odd place to discuss such matters from my standpoint. Since you’re working, I’ll drive.”
He waited until they were in the vehicle before he answered the question. “Yes, now and then, tailoring such to suit the mark. But more often the Irish suited well enough. I might layer it on—switching to a thicker West County brogue, or posh it up with public school tones.”
“But, especially if it was a long con, or some job that would take several weeks and a lot of communication with the mark, it would be easier and safer to stick close to natural. Posh it up or thicken it up, but stay with the basics.”
“That’s true enough,” he agreed as he headed uptown. “One slip and the whole thing can fall apart.”
“Guy tells her he’s from Georgia. She likes the accent, tells her friend that part. He’s smart, so the smart thing is to use what you have, what you’re comfortable with. Maybe he lived in the south, at least for a while. He tells her he goes to Columbia, so maybe he did, or he knows enough about it to be able to speak intelligently when she says, hey, I have a friend who goes there. No point in getting tripped up on those kinds of details. It’s hard to believe he’s nineteen, and has
“He works alone. A partner means you have to trust. Who could he trust this much? No loose ends if you work alone. I’m going to bet one of those students had their ID stolen or lost it within the last six months. He clones it, replaces the photo with one of himself, tweaks the basic data if necessary. If Deena gets a buzz, and checks, she’s going to find he’s registered as a student. For now, we run them. Dot every i. Tomorrow, we check to see if any of them replaced their ID. Take the top thirty,” she ordered. “I’ll take the rest. Work here or at home, and report to my home office in the morning, oh-seven-hundred.”
“Where are you going?”
“I want to go back to the scene, walk through it, then I’ll pick up the runs at home. Copy the data from Columbia to my home unit.”
“Okay. If I hit anything, I’ll let you know.”
Eve downed more coffee, and tagged Roarke. “Any progress?”
“This won’t be quick or easy.”
“I’m done here. I’m going to go back to the scene, do a walk-through, then take the rest home.”
“I’ll meet you in the garage.”
“Not quick or easy, remember?”
“With the captain’s blessing, I’m having some of the units sent to my lab at home. I’ve got better equipment. Five minutes.”
He clicked off.
She loaded up what she needed, sent copies of all reports, notes, files to her home unit. On the way to the garage she took a tag from one of the officers on the knock-on-doors. All residents on the victim’s block had been located and interviewed. And not one of them had seen anyone enter or exit the MacMasters home, save Deena herself, over the weekend.
Maybe Baxter and his faithful aide, Trueheart, would have better luck, she thought. Or she and Peabody would get a hit from the morning circuit of the park. But when a man left no trace of himself at a rape murder, when he took hours to complete the task and left nothing behind, the likelihood of him being careless enough to be seen with his victim was low.
Still, someone somewhere had seen them. Remembering was a different matter.
They’d walked, talked, eaten, played in the city, and over a number of weeks. She only had to find one venue, one person, one crack in the whole to pry open.
She walked to her car, leaned back against the trunk as she took out her memo book to key in more notes.
Columbia. Student ID.
Georgia. Southern accent.
Truth or lie? Why truth, why lie?
Missing pocket ’link, PPC—possible e-diary?—handbag. Other contents of handbag important? Protection and trophy?
She looked up when Roarke crossed the garage. “When you worked a mark, did you ever fake an accent?”
“A cop shop’s an odd place to discuss such matters from my standpoint. Since you’re working, I’ll drive.”
He waited until they were in the vehicle before he answered the question. “Yes, now and then, tailoring such to suit the mark. But more often the Irish suited well enough. I might layer it on—switching to a thicker West County brogue, or posh it up with public school tones.”
“But, especially if it was a long con, or some job that would take several weeks and a lot of communication with the mark, it would be easier and safer to stick close to natural. Posh it up or thicken it up, but stay with the basics.”
“That’s true enough,” he agreed as he headed uptown. “One slip and the whole thing can fall apart.”
“Guy tells her he’s from Georgia. She likes the accent, tells her friend that part. He’s smart, so the smart thing is to use what you have, what you’re comfortable with. Maybe he lived in the south, at least for a while. He tells her he goes to Columbia, so maybe he did, or he knows enough about it to be able to speak intelligently when she says, hey, I have a friend who goes there. No point in getting tripped up on those kinds of details. It’s hard to believe he’s nineteen, and has
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