Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,24

hand, let it fall. “On the surface, it is cunning, simply poorly executed.”

“He never asked how, specifically, she died, where she was, when he could see her, hasn’t contacted the ME about her. He didn’t even bother to leave the entrance light on as a pretense he expected her home.”

“Poorly executed,” Mira repeated. “He’s done with her, and it’s not in his nature to waste the time and effort. He’ll cede arrangements for her to her family, make the necessary appearances, attempt to demonstrate grief, then move on. His marriage to her was a means to an end, as was the child. Her death is precisely the same.”

“It’s not jealousy or rage. I didn’t get either of those from him last night.”

“No, as they wouldn’t have been there to get. Ego, advancement. His ego has been soothed, and the son is now his key to further advancement.”

She paused for more coffee. “Do you have any idea how he made contact with Cobbe?”

“Not yet. Working on it.”

“Cobbe,” Mira murmured. “Lorcan Cobbe. You can read the initial profile in the Solomen file, so I’ll just touch on it. Evidence indicates Ivan told the truth about the killings, as all were due to knife wounds. Ivan didn’t use sharps. He used his fists or the occasional blunt instrument in his role of enforcer. Though both the wife and son were killed in their beds, each showed defensive wounds—cuts on their hands. The wife and Solomen shared a bed, and she may have awakened when Cobbe and Ivan entered. The ME report indicates bruising around her mouth—a hand clamped over it. Her death came first.”

“Contain the biggest threat—the adult male—with a blow to the head—Ivan. Efficient would have been Cobbe killing the wife simultaneously, before she woke, or fully woke. He opted to let her wake up enough to try to scream before he killed her.

“He wanted her to know.”

“Killing a sleeping woman would be unsatisfying for someone who enjoys killing. We did consider his age, potentially his inexperience, but given what Whitney and Feeney were able to learn of his background, Clinton believed it was the former. I agree.

“The son’s room was on the opposite side of the house, and it’s unlikely he heard anything,” Mira continued. “Yet he was also awake when his throat was slit. Unlike his mother, his death came in degrees. Rather than one slice, several. He suffered, and that suffering was deliberate.”

Eve had seen their faces now, reviewed the crime scene record.

And could see it all, as clearly as she saw Mira sipping coffee in her perfect white suit.

“Ivan had the target under control, the woman was dead, so Cobbe had more time to enjoy killing the boy.”

“Yes. Solomen was brutally beaten over a period of nearly an hour, and also suffered multiple stab wounds. None of the wounds were fatal until the final gut wound—one similar to your current victim’s. Solomen was bound and gagged during the torture, indicating the orders weren’t to get any information, but to punish him, and kill him along with his family. As Ivan was a long-term and loyal employee of Colin Boswell’s, there’s no indication, no evidence Boswell ordered his elimination.”

Eve brought the photo on her board—the young Cobbe—into her mind.

And she could see it, see just how it had gone down.

“Cobbe stabbed him because he wanted to. All that blood, the entertainment, the high of it all. Why stop? Ivan’s a moron, a brute, you’re so much smarter. Take his wallet because he was probably stupid enough to put at least part of the payment in there. Then run,” Eve considered. “Because even with a hole in him Ivan’s strong. Run, get back to Ireland with a solid professional kill under your belt.”

Considering, Eve looked at Mira. “Does that jibe for you?”

“Right down the line. He’s not driven by ego like Tween, but ego is a factor. He found, at an early age, a profession he enjoys and has a terrible talent for. He grew up in a time and place where law and authority were largely corrupt, and violence a tool. In your report you say he believes he’s Patrick Roarke’s son.”

“Yes, and true son. Oldest son and true heir, I guess you could say. It doesn’t wash for me.”

Mira arched an eyebrow. “Because?”

“Physically, there’s no resemblance—he’s got light brown hair, hazel eyes, a heftier build, deeper coloring. The shape of his face, his features—just nothing connects.”

“I agree, but genetics can be tricky. And there’s no DNA on file