The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [161]
“I’ll set you up,” Eve muttered and dropped behind her desk. “I’d like to set both of you up, then drop-kick your asses.” Since she was in the mood to kick someone’s, she called the lab and harassed the chief tech over verifying the DNA.
By the time she met with Feeney, she had conclusive DNA evidence that the man who had raped and murdered Darlene French was Sylvester Yost.
When she told him, he nodded, sat on her desk, and took his habitual bag of nuts from the sagging pocket of his wrinkled suit. “Never doubted it. I ran a scan for like crimes. Nothing in the past seven, eight months. He’s been on vacation.”
“Or somebody didn’t want the bodies found. Any indication that he ever acts on his own? Personal reasons?”
“Nope.” Feeney crunched on a nut. “Pattern’s for profit. I’ve got McNab running the interplanetary and off planet scan. Might find something there.”
“You’re bringing McNab in?”
Her tone had him lifting his eyebrows. “Yeah. You got a problem with him?”
“No, no. He does good work.” Even as she spoke she drummed her fingers on the desk. “It’s just this thing with him and Peabody.”
Feeney hunched his shoulders. “I don’t want to think about that.”
“Well, me neither.” But if she was going to suffer, so was he. “He took her to a girl movie.”
“What?” Feeney paled, and the nut currently in his mouth almost rolled off his tongue. “He went to a skirt movie? Took her?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Ah, Christ.” He got off the desk, took a quick turn around the room on short, bandy legs. “That’s it, you know. That’s the finish. Boy’s sunk. Next thing you know he’ll be picking her flowers.”
“Already done.”
“Don’t tell me this shit, Dallas.” He turned back, basset hound eyes pleading. “Don’t put this business in my brain. Isn’t it bad enough I know they’re, you know, getting naked together?”
“Nobody listens to me about this.” She nodded, pleased to have found a like mind. “Roarke thinks it’s sweet.”
“He doesn’t have to work with them, does he?” Feeney said, firing up. “He doesn’t have to do the job knowing there’s winking and tickling and Jesus Christ in heaven knows what going on. I thought she had her sights on that slick-faced LC, Monroe.”
“She’s juggling them.”
Feeney peeled back his lips, sat again, offered Dallas the bag of nuts. “Women.”
“Yeah, what is with them?” Feeling considerably better, she ate a handful. “So, I’ve got Peabody running the boyfriend. I don’t think we’re going to find anything, but once we have his data I’ll swing over and interview him. Right now, I’m dodging the media. That’s for Roarke to deal with. I’m going back to the crime scene, do some poking around the hotel. I expect the tox report on French within an hour. I figure it’s going to be clean, but you never know about people.”
“Especially female people,” he muttered, still brooding.
“Yeah. French’s parents divorced about eight years back. He’s Harry D. French, currently living in the Bronx with his second wife. You got time to snip off that thread and take a look at his data? If it was a professional hit, maybe it was payback to him for something.”
“I’ll run him now. The mother?”
“Sherry Tides French. I ran her last night. Manages a damn candy store at the Newark Transpo Center. Whistle clean. I can’t see it coming down through her.”
She tossed him back his nuts, rose, and plucked her jacket from its hook. “Since you’ve got McNab, how about having him run the wire? Let’s see if we can find out where he buys it. The lab analysis should be coming through before midday.”
“Yeah, I’ll put him on it, keep him busy. Keep his mind out of his pants.”
“There you go.” Eve shrugged into her jacket and headed out.
Eve’s first stop was the hotel manager. She requested disc copies of guest records, records of current hotel personnel, and any employee who’d been terminated or had quit in the past year.
Before she could begin her song and dance about aiding the police in a homicide investigation, the possibility of a warrant,