In Death 06 - Vengeance in Death

accent, isn't it?"
    "My personal favorite." She took Audrey's arm once Eve had clapped on the cuffs.
    "We're going to have a nice long chat, Mary Pat, about murder, about mutilation, about motherhood. The three M's, you know?"
    "If you've harmed a hair on my boy's head, I'll pull out your heart and eat it."
    "If I've harmed him." Eve lifted her brows, and beneath them her eyes were iced. "You doomed him the first time you tucked him in with a bedtime story of revenge."
    Disgusted, she turned away, pulled out her communicator. "Commander, there's been a break in the case. I require a search and seizure warrant for the premises and personal effects of Audrey Morrell." She paused. "Also known as Mary Patricia Calhoun."
    They found Liam's hole behind a false wall in a converted pantry. Along with the equipment was a small table covered with a cloth of white Irish lace. Candles sat on it, surrounding a beautifully sculpted marble statue of the Mother of God. Above her, her Son hung from the golden cross.
    Is that how she'd wanted Liam to see themselves? Eve wondered. As saints and sufferers? As divine mother and sanctified child? And Audrey herself as the untouched, the wise, the chosen.
    "I bet she'd bring him a nice cup of tea and a sandwich with the crusts cut off while he was baiting traps in here. Then pray with him before she sent him off to kill."
    Feeney barely heard Eve's comment as he ran reverent hands over the equipment. "Have you ever seen the like of this, Ian McNab? This oscillator? What a beauty. And the cross-transmitter with multitask options. Nothing like this on the market."
    "There will be, by next spring," McNab told him. "I saw this unit down at Roarke's R and D division. More than half of these components are his, and nearly half of them aren't on the market yet."
    Eve grabbed his arm. "Who'd you talk to down at Roarke's? Who'd you work with. Every name, McNab."
    "Only three techs. Roarke kept it low-key, didn't want the whole department to know there was a cop sniffing around. Suwan-Lee, Billings Nibb, and A. A. Dillard."
    "Suwan, female?"
    "Yeah, tidy little Oriental dish. She was -- "
    "Nibb?"
    "E-lifer. Knows everything. The teams joke that he was around when Bell called Watson."
    "Dillard?"
    "Smart. I told you about him. Got great hands."
    "Fair, green eyes, about twenty, five-ten, a hundred sixty?"
    "Yeah, how did you -- "
    "Christ, Roarke's been paying the son of a bitch. Feeney can you get this equipment up and running, fully analyzed?"
    "You bet."
    "Let's go, Peabody."
    "Are we going to interview Mary Calhoun?"
    "Soon enough. Right now we're going to give A. A. Dillard his fucking pink slip."
    A. A. had missed his shift. It was the first such incident, she was told by Nibb, the department manager. A. A. was a model employee, prompt, efficient, cooperative, and creative.
    "I need to see all his files, personnel, works completed, works in progress, status reports, the whole shot."
    Nibb -- who wasn't quite old enough to have known A. G. Bell, but who had celebrated his centennial the past summer, crossed his arms. Behind a thick white moustache, his mouth went hard.
    "A great deal of those records include confidential material. Research and development in the electronics field is highly competitive. Cutthroat. One leak and -- "
    "This is a murder investigation, Nibb. And I'm hardly going to sell data to my husband's competitors."
    "Nonetheless, Lieutenant, I can't give you files on works in progress without the boss's personal consent."
    "You have it," Roarke said as he walked up.
    "What are you doing here?" Eve demanded.
    "Following my nose -- correctly, I see. Nibb, get the lieutenant everything she requested," he added, then drew Eve aside. "I reviewed the recording of the dustup in the lobby of the Arms again, then ran it through an analysis procedure we're working on here. Not to be technical, it assessed angles, distances, and so forth. The probability quotient that the killer was focused on McNab rather than the cop outside was very high."
    "So you asked yourself who might be connected to you, on some level, who would make McNab as a cop."
    "And the answer was someone in this department. I've just run a personnel scan. A. A. most closely fits the physical description."
    "You'd make a halfway decent cop."
    "I see no reason to insult me. I'd just accessed A. A.'s home address when the word came through we had cops sniffing. I assume our noses had caught the same scent."
    "What's the