Glory in Death - J. D. Robb [111]
She slipped into the bedroom, checked closets, and skimmed a glance over the communications center that took up more room than the bed.
“No sign of an intruder,” she said to Peabody, then ducked into the kitchen. “Where has our little bird flown?” she wondered. Pulling out her communicator, she contacted Feeney. “Give me everything you’ve got so far. I’m in his apartment, and he’s not.”
“I’m only about halfway there, but I think you’re going to like it. First, the sealed juvie record—and I had to sweat for this one, kid. Little C. J. had a problem with his social science instructor when he was ten. She didn’t give him an A on an assignment.”
“Well, that bitch.”
“That’s what he figured, apparently. He broke into her house, wrecked the place. And killed her little doggie.”
“Jesus, killed her dog?”
“Sliced its throat, Dallas. Ear to floppy ear. Ended up with mandatory therapy, probation, and community service.”
“That’s good.” Eve felt the pieces shifting into place. “Keep going.”
“Okay. I’m here to serve. Our pal drives a brand-new two-passenger Rocket.”
“God bless you, Feeney.”
“More,” he said, preening a bit. “His first adult job was on dispatch at a little station in his own hometown. He quit when another reporter jogged ahead of him to an on-air assignment. A woman.”
“Don’t stop now. I think I love you.”
“All the gold shields do. It’s my pretty face. Got on air on the next gig, weekends only, subbing for the first and second string. Left in a huff, claiming discrimination. Assignment editor, female.”
“Better and better.”
“But here’s the big one. Station he worked at in California. He was making it pretty good there, scrambled up from third string, got a regular spot on the midday, coanchoring.”
“With a woman?”
“Yeah, but that’s not the big guns, Dallas. Wait for it. Pretty little weather girl that was pulling in all the mail. Brass liked her so much they let her do some of the soft features on the midday. Ratings went up when she was on, and she started to get press of her own. Morse quit, citing he refused to work with a nonprofessional. That was just before the little weather girl got her big break, a recurring bit part in a comedy. Want to guess her name?”
Eve closed her eyes. “Tell me it’s Yvonne Metcalf.”
“Give the lieutenant a cigar. Metcalf had a notation about meeting the Dumb Ass from the partly sunny days. I’d say it’s a good bet our boy looked her up in our fair city. Funny he never mentioned they were old pals in his reports. Would’ve given them such a nice shine.”
“I do love you, desperately. I’m going to kiss your ugly face.”
“Hey, it’s lived in. That’s what my wife tells me.”
“Yeah, right. I need a search warrant, Feeney, and I need you here at Morse’s to break down his computer.”
“I’ve already requested the warrant. I’ll have it transmitted to you as soon as it comes in. Then I’m on my way.”
Sometimes the wheels moved smoothly. Eve had the warrant and Feeney within thirty minutes. She did kiss him, enthusiastically enough to have him going red as a hybrid beet.
“Secure the door, Peabody, then take the living area. Don’t bother to be neat.”
Eve swung into the bedroom, two steps ahead of Feeney. He was already rubbing his hands together.
“That’s a beautiful system,” he said. “Whatever his faults, the asshole knows his computers. It’s going to be a pleasure to play with her.” He sat down as Eve started to hunt through drawers.
“Obsessively trendy,” she commented. “Nothing that shows too much sign of wear, nothing too expensive.”
“He’s putting all his money in his toys.” Feeney hunched over, brows knit. “This guy respects his equipment, and he’s careful. There are code blocks everywhere. Jesus, he’s got a fail-safe.”
“What?” Eve straightened up. “On a home unit?”
“He’s got one, all right.” Gingerly, Feeney eased back. “If I don’t use the right code, the data’s zapped. Odds are it’s voice printed, too. It’s not going to let me in easy, Dallas. I’m going to have to bring in some equipment,