attention, until the end.
“I’m aware of your skill and reputation, Doctor, and don’t disagree. But I’ve been studying Cobbe for several years. He’s a skilled, pragmatic, professional killer, and one with considerable resources. He can wait.”
“He could,” Mira said. “He should. He won’t. His obsession with Roarke, with Patrick Roarke, is neither pragmatic nor professional. The pattern you speak of no longer applies. He’s forming a new one, one intensely personal, emotional. I’ve studied the file, Inspector, and clearly Cobbe has made more mistakes in forty-eight hours than he has in twenty years. For him, this is birthright. This is identity.”
“There’s no evidence, whatsoever, that Patrick Roarke was Lorcan Cobbe’s biological father.”
“No, but Cobbe believes he was. And that’s what’s driving him. He’s tried, and failed, to eliminate Roarke before. Ego, identity, rage—and the fact he saw Roarke on the scene of his last successful murder—all cloud his professional judgment now.”
Frowning, Abernathy held up a hand. “We don’t have any data on any attempt to eliminate Roarke.”
“You do now. We have a comprehensive report for you, but to sum up,” Eve began, and started with the night Cobbe presented himself to Patrick Roarke.
“More extensive details are in the file. As to resources, you now have one of his contacts in custody, and the location of his financial accounts.”
“Yes, and both are very helpful. We’re watching for any activity on those accounts, and will freeze them when we substantiate he’s left New York, and the window closes. That will put a hitch in his stride. The man enjoys living well.”
“Which included a brief stay in a penthouse suite at the Parkview Hotel, and a top-level licensed companion hired the night of the Modesto hit and his sighting of Roarke. Baxter?”
“Loo.” Baxter kicked back in his chair. “On the lieutenant’s orders, my partner and I searched for and located the hotel Cobbe used. We interviewed the staff, and viewed the security feed. A copy of which is now in the file.”
As Baxter ran through it, Abernathy glanced around, sat in an empty chair. And taking out a notebook, began to write down key points.
“He frequents LCs, we know. But any we’ve been able to identify and interview in the past stated they meet him in a hotel room—usually nondescript, a business hotel where he, routinely again, checks in for that purpose only. He doesn’t bring them where he stays, or lives.”
“He was pissed,” Eve said. “Charged up. He didn’t take the usual precautions. Go on, Baxter.”
Once again, Abernathy took notes. Then he stopped, stared. “Hair loss products? He left them out, let the LC use the loo where he left them out?”
“Pissed,” Eve said again. “And already making arrangements to leave the hotel. The Modesto job’s done. He’s not thinking about that anymore. He’s thinking about his Holy Grail.”
“That’s very careless,” Abernathy murmured. “Extremely careless. We should be able to track the products.”
“Done,” Eve said, and pulled out her laser pointer. “On the board. Style and Substance, the salon he uses—regularly—in Dublin is managed by Carleen Digby and Aidan Pierce. I spoke with Digby, who identified Cobbe’s photo. He uses the name Niall Patrickson for his spa and salon deals.”
“We don’t have that alias.”
“You do now.” And yeah, she had to admit the satisfaction of dumping accumulated data in Interpol’s lap. “I spoke with three of his techs—hair, skin, nails—and have their statements. To sum up, he’s polite, fussy, exacting, tips well, doesn’t like to chat. He’s been having the hair loss treatments by a licensed tech every three months—for nearly a year.”
“Bugger me sideways,” Abernathy mumbled as he pushed to his feet to move closer to the board. “A bloody day spa? Regular appointments?”
“Vanity,” Mira supplied. “Ego, arrogance. He sees himself as invincible.”
“We’re tracking locations here that carry the same products, the same service,” Eve added. “He has weeks before he needs another on-site treatment, but he may want or need more supplies for his kit, as he’s extending his stay.”
“I don’t know about the last part, but this is prime. This is bloody brilliant police work. Have the Dublin police been informed?”
“Not yet.”
“If you’d let me report this to my superiors, take this part of the investigation from here?”
“All yours.”
“I’m grateful. I’m impressed.” He turned to Eve with a wide grin that convinced her he wouldn’t try to bogart the investigation. “I’m bloody gobsmacked.”
He beamed back at the board, then frowned. “A cat?”
“That’s right.” As Eve told him, Abernathy ran a hand over his close-cropped hair.
“This isn’t like him.” Pacing