The In Death Collection Books 26-29 - J.D. Robb [473]
“If he had a brain he would. Maybe, once they’re established and he’s got her hooked, he doesn’t know teenage girls well enough to realize she’s got to tell someone. A peer, a pal. So he’s not worried about us digging there. But he had to worry about Jamie checking or her—cop’s daughter—checking, even just to satisfy her curiosity. He had to show student ID at the vids and so on to get the discount, or wouldn’t she wonder why he didn’t? Where did he get it?”
“Stolen or forged.”
“Maybe both, because if someone checked—and he’s got to cover that—he needs to show up on the roster.”
“We know he has some e-skills. It wouldn’t be hard to do. And,” Roarke added, “if he had a brain, he’d have already wiped himself off that roster.”
“High probability on that. So tomorrow I’m going to start pushing somebody at the college to get me a list of students reporting a stolen ID, then start wading through that.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“Because it’s freaking and increasingly annoying Peace Day, and it’s late anyway, and nobody’s in Administration or whatever.”
“I can take care of that.”
Narrowing her eyes, she pointed a warning finger at him. “I just told you we have to be careful. I can’t have you hacking into Columbia’s student files.”
“Which is a shame as I’d enjoy that. But I can take care of this with a ’link call.”
“To who?”
“Why don’t we just start at the top, with the president of the university?”
She squinted. “You know the president of Columbia University?”
“I do, yes. Roarke Industries sponsors a scholarship, and has donated lab equipment from time to time. Plus, I spoke with her at length regarding Jamie.”
“So you can just pick up the ’link, give her a tag, no problem?”
“Well, we won’t know till we try, will we?”
He pulled his ’link out of his pocket, tapped his fingers on the screen to do a search. “She’s an interesting woman, with a nearly terrifying radar for bullshit. You’d like her.” He smiled as the call went through. “Peach. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”
Across the table, Eve heard the muted response, but not the words. Whatever it was, Roarke laughed.
“Well then, I’m delighted to be of help. As it happens, I’m about to ask for yours. You’re aware my wife is a police officer. Ah, is that so? Yes, indeed, she comes across quite well on screen. She’s heading an investigation that may have some connection to a student or former student at Columbia.”
He paused, listened, flicked a glance toward Eve. “Yes, that would have been her partner. I know the NYPSD appreciates your cooperation. They need to ask for more. I think it would be best if the lieutenant explains to you directly what she needs. Would you hold one moment?”
He tapped for hold, held out the ’link to Eve.
“Peach?” she said. “A university president named Peach?”
“Doctor Lapkoff.”
“Right.” Eve took the ’link, opened communications. Her first impression was of ice blue eyes so sharp they looked able to pierce steel. They beamed out of a cool, attractive face topped with short, straight brown hair.
“Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was brisk, as no-nonsense as the do. “How can I help you?”
Within minutes, the bureaucratic wheels were turning. Eve passed the ’link back to Roarke. “She says she’ll have the data to me within an hour.”
“Then she will.”
“So I guess I better go back to work, and get ready for it.”
Back in her office, she started a match search with the Columbia list and MacMasters’s threat file, and a second for matches with his case files for the last five years. It would take time.
She used it to study the video again.
He’d stopped and started, she judged, a number of times. Each time Deena hesitated or went off script. Patience, focus. He had a message, and he wanted it delivered.
Blame the father, even though it was perfectly clear the victim spoke only under duress.