In Death 29 - Kindred in Death

accessing data that could be done while she gave it a rest.
    “How hard would it be to set up a search for minor variations like this?” She brought up Inga’s ID photo, splitting the screen. “Adding in a five-year age span, the initials.”
    “Setting it up, easy enough. The results? They’ll be all over the bloody place. She’s a very attractive woman in her early to mid-twenties with a certain set of initials, and features with a slight variance. Have you any idea how many there might be in the world who fit that basic description?”
    “Stick with the U.S. And I’m thinking him. Darrin/David/Damien.”
    “And still.”
    “I’ll wade through the results. All you have to do is get them.”
    “I’ll set it up, then we’re going to bed.”
    “That’s a deal.”
     
    She woke just after five to the blessed scent of coffee. Opening one eye, she saw Roarke by the AutoChef, sipping a tall mug and watch ing her.
    “I thought the timing worked,” he said as he lifted a second mug and brought it to her.
    “Thanks. Have you already started today’s quest for world economic domination?”
    “That’s not scheduled till six, which I calculated was about the time you’d start today’s quest for truth, justice, and ass-kicking.”
    “Sounds about right. I’ve got a good feeling. With what we’ve got, what we’re getting, we may be able to pin him down today. I can put together enough to haul him in. If EDD gets me the image of him walking into the house, I’ve got more. Motive, means, opportunity. It’s all there. Circumstantial, but strong.”
    “I like an optimistic cop.”
    She felt more so after she’d showered, dressed, had a second cup of coffee and a waffle.
    In her office, she checked for incoming on the wild hope that someone on the graveyard shift at Chicago PD decided to do a good deed. No luck there, she noted, but she’d push that again and soon. She checked the results of the search Roarke had run at her request, and felt that optimism drop several notches.
    “Three hundred and thirty-three thousand possibles? Shit.” She noted he’d run a secondary search adding a current New York address. That cut it down to slightly more than thirteen thousand.
    And he’d run those results against people who’d purchased the security system. The man thought like a cop, she decided, even if the result came up goose egg.
    There had to be another angle, another way to whittle down those possibles. Back burner, she decided, until she’d updated her reports and prepped for the briefing.
    It took her most of the hour, and restored most of her earlier optimism. Just before seven, she contacted Whitney.
    “Commander, I’ve just sent you an updated report.”
    “Yes, it’s coming in now. Highlight it.”
    She did so, smothering the urge to get to her feet, to stand as she preferred when giving orals.
    “I feel,” she continued, “we’re stacking the building blocks of a solid case, and refining our search for the suspect. It’s my belief Captain MacMasters may be able to provide more details, and more insights into the matter of the arrest, interrogation, and sentencing of Irene Schultz, and that will further assist us in apprehending Darrin Pauley.”
    “When do you brief your team?”
    “They’re arriving now, sir.” She signaled Peabody, McNab, and Jamie to silence as they came in chattering.
    “I’ll have the captain in my office at nine. He’s agreed to issue a short statement to the media at noon. We’ll need to do the same, and to stand with him. He will not take questions, but you will. Five-minute duration.”
    Crap. Crap. Crap, she thought. “Yes, sir.”
    “Brief your team, Lieutenant. I’ll contact Chicago from here, give them a push on the information you need.”
    “Thank you, Commander.”
    She ended the conversation just as Summerset wheeled in a long buffet table, and Trueheart came through the door pushing the other end.
    “God, doesn’t anybody think about anything but food?” she demanded.
    “Thinking is often clearer when the body is properly attended.” Summerset stepped ably out of the way of the stampede. Eve saw his gaze track to the murder board, and knew it lingered on the crime scene photos of Deena. He looked back at Eve. “I wish you all the clearest of thoughts.”
    When he left the room, she rose, got coffee. “Settle down, people. This is a briefing not a stuff-your-face contest. Screens on,” she ordered. “This is our suspect,” she