again known, making a living off murder. We’re going to make sure Galla Modesto’s his last.”
“Are we going to Europe?” Baxter wondered.
“Don’t grab your go-bag yet. There’s every indication Cobbe is still in New York, and plans to be here for a while.”
“He’s got another target?” Reineke asked.
“Yes, a personal one. Roarke.”
Reineke’s eyes narrowed even as he shook his head. “Not going to happen.”
“We’ll make sure of it. Roarke knew Cobbe when they were kids in Dublin, and Cobbe became a protégé of Patrick Roarke—whom Cobbe claims is his biological father.”
“I don’t see any family resemblance,” Carmichael commented.
“No. And there’s no evidence to confirm this claim, as yet. Doesn’t matter,” she added, “as Cobbe believes it and has, most of his life, considered Roarke a rival, an obstacle, a threat. He made sure Roarke saw him in the crowd of lookie-loos at the Modesto crime scene.”
“Chew him up, spit him out. Sorry.” Baxter waved a hand. “Just imagining what Roarke’ll do to this asshole.”
She felt the same, just the same, but …
“We’re not going to underestimate Lorcan Cobbe. He’s successfully eluded worldwide law enforcement, including every damn alphabet you can think of.”
“Not the NYPSD,” Jenkinson said.
“But he did.” Whitney nodded as Feeney came in. “Twenty years ago. More accurately, twenty-one years ago last month. Captain Feeney and I carry that one. You’ll have the report. Study it. You’ll have Dr. Mira’s profile. Study it. The same for the Modesto case. Good work, Lieutenant, Detective, on Tween.”
“Thank you, sir. But he was an idiot,” Eve added. “I don’t see Cobbe as a mastermind, but he has solid instincts.”
“I’d put this department, including the expert consultant, civilian, up against those instincts every day of the week. He doesn’t walk away from another body on our turf.”
“No, sir, he doesn’t.”
“He won’t threaten our civilian consultant or our lieutenant with impunity.”
“He threatened you, LT?” Jenkinson pushed up in his chair, shoulders suddenly steel-beam straight.
“He will,” Whitney said before Eve could speak. “It’s pattern.”
“Fucker’s going down.” The outrage on Jenkinson’s face shined brighter than his tie. “Fucking fuck’s going the fuck down! Pardon my fucking French, Commander.”
“I depend on you taking the fucker down,” Whitney returned. “Lieutenant, I came down to brief you on my discussions with law enforcement and intelligence agencies, foreign and domestic. With your permission, I’ll brief the room.”
“The room’s yours, sir.”
“You’ll all have a written report,” Whitney began, “but I’ll summarize here. I’ve been in contact with the FBI, Homeland, the CIA, as well as their counterparts, and ours, throughout Europe, in Australia, South Africa, Asia. Chief Tibble has already been briefed, and had part in several of those conversations. He’s available to you, Dallas, at any time on this matter.”
“That’s appreciated, Commander.”
“Lorcan Cobbe.” Whitney studied the screen. “His various known aliases are listed in the report. He is a person of interest or suspect in four hundred and forty-three murders.”
“Sir.” Trueheart, young face earnest, shot up a hand. “Did you say four hundred and forty-three?”
“That’s correct. In a twenty-four-year span, which is the consensus of his length as a pro, that’s an average of eighteen bodies a year. Several agents and LEOs believe he tops that, but these are his known or strongly suspected numbers worldwide.”
Detective Carmichael made notes on her PPC. “Nothing off-planet, sir?”
“No, which results—according to intel—from his fear of off-planet travel. His fee, currently, ranges from one to two million euros—plus expenses. He uses brokers or trusted contacts to acquire work. He prefers the close-up kill, prefers knives. Is said to have an impressive collection of them. He also prefers the quick kill—as illustrated with Modesto—but will, for an additional fee, spend additional time or torture. Sometimes because the client wants the target to suffer, sometimes because the client wants information from the target.
“His mother,” Whitney continued, “who still lives in Dublin—though in a far more comfortable situation than she provided through prostitution, before legalization, and street LC work after legalization—claims she’s had no direct contact with him in twenty years. Authorities have not succeeded in tracing the income she receives semiannually to any specific account.”
“Takes care of his ma, does he?” Baxter put in.
“Apparently.”
“She’s been questioned over the years,” Feeney added. “Her electronics confiscated, stripped down. Nothing, so far, has led back to Cobbe. Best guess? They communicate rarely, and through a code of some kind. Doubtful she knows where he is.” Feeney glanced at Eve. “She still claims she and Patrick Roarke made the kid. Mostly she keeps her mouth shut, keeps to herself. Travels