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She stared into Feeney’s mournful eyes. “I was working on it.”

“Well, work harder. You take one, maybe some of the rest of us get one. I was all kicked back with a bottle of brew, a bowl of cheese chips, and the Yankee game on-screen when Peabody tagged me.”

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, well, the sons of bitches lost, lost to the freaking Tijuana Tacos. Burns my ass.” He blew out a breath, scratching his fingers in his wiry thatch of graying russet-colored hair. “Anyway, something about your guy rang some bells when Peabody shot the image through. Couldn’t bring it together at first. Had to run him through IRCCA with disc image only. No prints. Sweepers say he musta sealed up. We’ll get his DNA though, from the blood and skin under her nails, and the semen. Didn’t seal up his dick.”

“Yeah, I know how you guys hate putting a coat on your best friend.”

He gave her a sour smile. “I don’t figure he’s worried about the DNA. Sealed up, I expect, to buy a little time to relocate. Take us a few hours to get the DNA results.”

“Did you get a pop through IRCCA?”

“I’m getting to it. So I run him, image only. Get me some likelies with probable face-sculpting work. I fiddle around with them some on the morphing system, and I got a real pretty picture. Added in the murder weapon, and rang those bells. Name’s Sylvester Yost. Sly Yost. Got him a shit pot load of aliases, but that’s his birth name.”

“Was Priory one of his a.k.a.s?”

“Not until now. I got it added into the mix. Anyhow, about fifteen years back I worked a case—serial strangulations, silver wire. Five victims scattered all over the damn planet. We had one in New York. Female. Licensed companion. Second-rate license. She had ties to the black market. So did the other four victims. Not the same organization. But every victim was a key player in something mucky. We got a line on Yost, but never tugged him in on it. The murders stopped, and the case sat there going stale.”

“A hired hammer?”

“We figured, but who hired the bastard? He hit every major cartel. No bias there. He comes up most likely on no less than twenty strangulations before and since. And he did time in the thirties for assault with deadly.”

“Yeah, I knew he’d seen what a cage looks like from the inside. Only one arrest?”

“Just the one. Records show he’d have been twenty when the Miami cops reeled him in. Looks like he’s gotten better at his work over the years.”

“I’m pulling into Central now. Send me everything you’ve got on him.”

“Already did. I’m going to work it some more. Get you an update in the morning. I’d like a second shot at this guy.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Tomorrow, then. Hey, Dallas?”

“What?”

“What’s that stuff in your hair?”

“What stuff?” She reached up, dragging fingers through, and felt the little raindrop diamonds. “It’s just—I was out . . .” Mortified, she cleared her throat. “Never mind,” she muttered and cut transmission.

The man who’d been born Sylvester Yost, who had strangled a young maid while under the name of James Priory and was currently carrying identification as Giorgio Masini, sipped his second glass of unblended scotch and watched the recording of the evening’s Yankee game.

If he’d been the type to kill for personal reasons, he’d have hunted down the Yankee pitcher and gutted him like a fish. But since murder was a business, he merely sat, cursing quietly in a surprisingly feminine voice.

There had been some who’d made cracks about the thin, high pitch of his voice. If he was on a job, he ignored them. If he was on his own time, he beat the living hell out of them.

But even that was simply a matter of principle. He wasn’t a passionate man, not about people or principles. The lack of passion made him an excellent killing machine.

The money for the night’s work had already been deposited in an account under yet another name. He had no idea why the girl—because she’d been hardly more than that—had been targeted. He simply accepted the contract, fulfilled it, took the money.

This particular job had only just begun, and promised to reap him a considerable fee.