on it,” Eve repeated. “And if I don’t have his VP in charge of murder by tomorrow, I have a contingency plan.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Let’s take it in my office. I want to check on the face match.”
“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Reo asked as they walked.
“I just told you I have a contingency.”
“I meant the premiere. Even this job takes a break once in a while.”
“Not exactly, and that’s the contingency.”
In her office Eve ran it through while Reo sat sipping water from a bottle she pulled out of a handbag the size of a baby elephant.
“You actually think he’ll try for you at a red carpet event.”
“I think he’s assured I’ll be there, and he’ll believe I’m off my guard basking in the sparkle and attention.”
“He doesn’t know you, does he? You’re never off your guard, and you don’t bask. Not in sparkle anyway.”
“His perception’s his reality, and it’s boosted by all that media on the flying baby, on Nadine’s interview with me, on the media hype for the event. Mira’s convinced he has to eliminate me in order to gain satisfaction for the job he’s done, and because his level of violence and his enjoyment of it increases with each killing. I can’t argue with it.”
“There’s room for slip ups here, Dallas.”
“There always is, but he’s going to be the one to slip. We take him, we take Alexander. We hand you conspiracy to murder, and a big, fat fraud and embezzlement bouquet you can pick through with the feds.”
“His operatives will scramble, but I expect the feds will gather them up.”
“Milo’s data should help with that. It’s a nice dish to offer the feds. They’ll owe us.”
“You’d think. It doesn’t always work that way, but it’s not only a good case, it’s a nice lever we may be able to pull at some point.”
She looked at Eve’s monitor, the screen split between Yancy’s sketch and a constant scroll of faces. “That’s the guy?”
“It’s what we’ve got. Yancy felt confident, but we’ve been searching for a match for hours without a solid hit.”
“Good luck. I hope you get that hit soon because I’ll have a much better time tomorrow without waiting for some hired killer with a grudge to take a shot at you.”
“I don’t know. It kind of adds a . . . sparkle.”
“Only you,” Reo said with a laugh and rose. “I’m going to check to see if Milo got his lawyer, then—”
“Holy shit! You must be like a lucky charm. If I go to Vegas, I’m taking you with me.”
“That’s him,” Reo agreed, studying the ID photo over Eve’s shoulder. “Clinton Rosco Frye.”
“Age thirty-three, freelance personal security. Yeah, that’s the name for it. He’s not listing Alexander as employer.” She scanned down. “I knew it. See? Semi-pro football. It’s been about eight years, and it’s bush-league, but I knew it. Two years regular army, four years paramilitary Montana Patriots.”
“Straight out of high school into the army. Out of the army into the Montana Patriots, which—as I just looked them up,” Reo said, tapping her PPC, “gets a three and a half on the four-star lunatic fringe scale. Play some ball . . . How do you go from that to personal security to killer?”
“You can’t get into the bigs, can’t make it out of semi-pro. Screw it, use your build, your moves for bodyguarding and make more money. Fall in with just the right client—pays good, makes you his go-to for head-knocking. It just escalates. See, he’s got some dings on here, all involving violence. Assault, battery, destruction of property. He didn’t do any time, just paid fines, anger management bullshit, community service. No illegals playing in, no alcohol. He stays clean, keeps in shape. And according to his official report makes a damn good living freelancing. There’ll be more tucked away, but he doesn’t mind reporting a hefty sum, and paying the freight on it. He needs the success.”
“The address listed. It’s not far from the first crime scene, is it?”
“No, it’s not. Not far from Alexander and Pope. It’s handy to live close to work.” She rose, grabbed her coat.
“It looks like you’ll have to settle for the sparkle on my shoes tomorrow night,” Reo said. “They’re fabulous. I’ll get your warrant, and if I’m not here when you bring him in, just tag me. Work late tonight, party hard tomorrow.”
“Maybe.” She dragged on her coat as she strode into the bullpen. “Peabody,