The in Death Collection Books 11-15 - J. D. Robb [183]
“Take a minute,” Whitney advised when the door closed behind them, “before you say something you may regret.”
“I assure you, Commander, I couldn’t regret anything I might say at the moment.” But she took a breath. “I appreciate your support.”
“Jacoby was out of line. He was heading over the line when he strutted in here thinking he could rattle his federal balls at me. He asks for cooperation properly, he’ll get it. He will not take over your case. It may come down to you working in tandem with Jacoby and Stowe. Is that a problem?”
“It won’t be my problem. Sir.”
A smile flickered around his mouth before he nodded, sat again. “Fill me in.”
She did so, as thoroughly and concisely as her written report. And as she did so, she watched Whitney’s lips purse, his eyebrows raise. Those were the only reactions.
“In all these years the Feebs haven’t put Yost in New York?”
“They may have, sir, but not as indicated by any data I’ve been able to access. They have followed the wire, but not, as far as it shows, the specific length to specific outlets. I fail to understand how something that basic could have been neglected. The luggage, the hairpiece, those apply directly to French. But it’s likely he’s repeated that pattern, or a slight variation at other times. The FBI profile on the suspect is intricate and thorough, which is why I have yet to request one from Doctor Mira. I intend to do so, as corroboration, and with the additional data I’ve accumulated.”
“Cover that, and make certain you have documentation and paperwork on every step. Jacoby may be the type to try to hang you up on technicalities. Media-wise, I want you low profile. The tone of the case shades toward Roarke, which shades toward you. I don’t want you to give any statements until you’re cleared to do so.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t look so smug about it. You’ll be tossed to the media hounds before it’s finished. No leads, I take it, on who might be pulling the strings here, or why?”
“No, sir.”
“Then keep your focus on Yost. Smoke him out. Dismissed.”
“Yes, sir.” She turned to the door, one step behind Peabody.
“Dallas?”
“Yes, Commander?”
“I believe you can tell Roarke to expect a little federal pressure.”
“Understood.” She strode to the elevator, resisted kicking the wall. “She’s nothing but a tool to him. Darlene French to Jacoby,” she muttered. “No more human to him than she was to Yost. The son of a bitch.”
“She’s got you, Dallas.”
“That’s right. And she’s going to keep me.” Eve started to step into the elevator, then spotted Stowe inside. “Stay out of my face.”
Stowe raised a hand in a gesture of truce. “Jacoby’s gone back to the field office. I just want a minute. I’ll ride down with you.”
“Your partner’s an asshole.”
“Only about half the time.” Stowe tried a smile. She was a trim woman in her middle thirties who did her best to spruce up the federal dress code with a pretty swing of honey brown hair. Her eyes were shades darker, and direct. “Listen, I want to apologize for Jacoby’s remarks, and his attitude.” She let out a sigh. “And my apology doesn’t mean squat, however sincere.”
“Maybe it means squat, even if it doesn’t mean diddly.”
“Fair enough. Look, when you cut out the red tape, we’re all cops and all after the same thing.”
“Are we?”
“Yost. You want him, we want him. Does it matter to you who turns the key in his cage?”
“I don’t know. You guys have had a lot of years to turn that key. About as many years as Darlene French got to live.”
“True enough. Personally, however, I’ve had three months, and of the three probably one in pure man hours to assimilate data on Sylvester Yost. If it gets us closer to stopping him, I’ll hand you the key.”
When the doors opened on the garage level, Stowe glanced out. She’d have to ride back up to the main lobby level. “I’m just asking you not to let Jacoby’s temperament get in the