got Cobbe’s name out of him though. He claimed Cobbe did all the killing, including giving him that jab in the liver. Claimed he punched Cobbe good for it, but the kid—he couldn’t’ve been more than twenty, twenty-couple—ran off laughing.”
“The nine-one-one on it came in less than thirty minutes after Sol-omen’s TOD,” Whitney added. “Anonymous tip. We figured Cobbe got himself clear and hoped we’d catch Ivan still on scene. Ivan said Cobbe must have picked his pocket when he jabbed him, because his wallet was gone.”
Feeney pointed toward the friggie. “Got anything sweet to drink in there?”
“Have you met my wife?”
“Ha. Right.” Settling, Feeney took Eve’s water tube, glugged some, passed it back. “Cobbe already had a sheet in Ireland, and we pushed on the Dublin cops. Sticking point? All we had was the word of a dead man with his own sheet. Ivan either didn’t know who hired him for the hit or just wouldn’t turn on Boswell. And we’re talking a bad time in Dublin, corruption, and plenty of cops on Boswell’s payroll or somebody like him. We couldn’t get extradition. No record of Cobbe traveling outside Ireland, witnesses who swore he was with them at the time of the murders.”
“We knew he’d killed three people, but we couldn’t touch him.” Whitney stared straight ahead. Looking back, Eve thought.
“I squeezed Solomen into weaseling for me. He paid for it. His wife and sixteen-year-old son paid for it. Big Tom Ivan paid for it. Cobbe never did.”
“You did the job, Jack,” Feeney reminded him. “Solomen knew what he was doing when he signed up with a shit like Boswell, and when he turned on him.”
“The kid played basketball and wanted to be an astronomer. He had a telescope in his room, models of the solar system.”
“You can’t carry that,” Feeney began.
“We always carry it, Ryan. We’re not worth the badge if we don’t. He’s been busy the last twenty years.” Whitney tapped his comp screen. “And now he’s on our turf again. What do you need?” he asked Eve.
“Whatever the agencies keeping files on him have.”
“I’ll make it so.”
“Permission to attach Roarke to this investigation, and to assign him a weapon.”
When Whitney raised his eyebrows, Eve stepped carefully. “Officially, sir. He will be a target and should, legally, have the means to defend himself.”
“I believe he already has plenty of means, but I’ll put that through.”
She turned to Feeney. “I could use all the time and assistance you can give me.”
“No question of that.”
“I’m bringing in Tween this afternoon, and will have a warrant and a search team at his home while he’s here. I could use quick work on any e’s, any communication between him and Cobbe, any leads as to how he found Cobbe and contacted him. Any—”
“You figure you have to tell me what to look for, kid?”
“No. I—” Her ’link signaled a text. “Give me a sec.”
She pulled it out, read the communication. Shook her head. “Arrogant and greedy,” she muttered. “Roarke’s letting me know Tween just put the painting Modesto bought from Stowe up for sale. I gave Tween a flick on the painting last night, as it was on the wall in the room where I notified him. He knew about the artist, the painting. He couldn’t leave it in his house, but didn’t just burn the damn thing. Might as well make a profit, help offset the killing fee.”
She put the ’link away. “I have the victim’s family coming in at noon. Morris will have the body ready for them after we speak. As of this morning, Tween hasn’t contacted the ME’s office.”
“He doesn’t even pretend to give a shit,” Feeney decided. “Send me what you’ve got. I’ll have an e-team ready when you get your warrant.”
“I will.” She turned to Whitney. She thought about the weight, because he had it right. You always carried it. “We’ll bring him down, sir.”
“I depend on it.”
5
Eve double-timed it back to Homicide. Swinging into the bullpen, she snapped, “Peabody!” and headed toward her office.
She almost made it.
Baxter rushed over. “Sorry, LT, I know you’re tight for time, but my boy and I need to follow a lead.”
“Then follow it.”
“To some Bumfuck town out in nowhere rural Maryland. I need you to sign off for the shuttle trip, then a rental car because there’s no shuttle service in Bumfuck nowhere.”
She gestured for the tablet he held out, used her finger to scrawl her name. “Why?”
“Guy got himself beat to death and stuffed in a commercial