“The subject is twenty-eight years old, lives without cost in a family residence, has no employment, is not pursuing further education. And while he has an annual trust fund in the millions, he also has full use of the company card? Correct?”
“Yes.”
“It’s unlikely the subject has ever paid a real price—not just monetarily, but in any way—for any behavior or decisions, however poor. The only son, two successful older sisters.”
“Betting he was the prince in that house,” Jenkinson commented.
“I agree,” Mira said. “He has decided he’s an artist, and even though he’s had no success in that area, his family—or certain members of it—continue to indulge him. That indulgence is, at least partially, responsible for his lack of conscience, for his choice to take lives for the purpose of, somehow, bringing his art into the public eyes. Gaining the praise and adulation he believes he deserves as, I believe, he has always received praise and adulation from, most likely, his mother.”
On hologram, Mira turned from the screen toward Eve. “He won’t surrender easily. No one has the right to stop him, to accuse him, to punish him. He will certainly try to protect his art, and do whatever he can to finish what he began.”
“I think we can handle that.”
“No doubt. I’m sure you realize he’ll have the best defense attorneys his family can find. And they have plenty of resources.”
“Understood. It’s why we’re going to move in after he takes his nexttarget. I don’t care how many lawyers they pull in, they can’t whine ‘innocent’ when he’s got the next in there, in costume. When he’ll have the barbiturates handy.
“Tell me: How big a risk to the target?”
“If he believes the target could somehow block his arrest, he may attempt to take them as a hostage. But harming the model? He can’t finish the work, or what he’s decided, as with the others, he needs before killing them.”
“I’m betting on ten cops and a consultant against one spoiled rich kid killer.”
Mira smiled. “I would, too.”
“He’ll have a male this time. Girl, boy, woman—the next is a male. For balance. He’d want balance. Male or female, once cops get there, if he tries to take a street LC by force? He’s going to have a fight on his hands.
“Something goes wrong, it’s on me. Let’s make sure nothing goes wrong. Let’s see the house.”
She glanced around. “Where’s Roarke?”
“He and Feeney stepped out. He got it programmed first. I’ve got it,” McNab told her.
Eve studied the exterior first. “That’s all one unit?”
“Three-story with accessible rooftop and attached garage,” McNab told her. “Converted from multi-to single-family residence in 2054. Entrances, garage, front, rear, and west side. We’ve got the security system—it’s one of Roarke’s.”
“Handy.”
“Three-sixty cams, anti-jam shields, palm and retinal scanners, anti-hack digital locks with full lockdown mode and integrated alarm system. He’s got the works, squared.”
“And we’ve got the guy who designed the works.”
As she spoke, Roarke and Feeney came in. She’d caught the scent, as had every cop in the room, from the stack of pizza boxes they both carried.
She should’ve known.
“McNab, put the interior up, then take five. Five, people! Grab your slice and keep the noise down.”
On hologram, Mira watched the stampede in amusement.
“And now I want pizza.”
Roarke smiled at her. “I spoke to Dennis, and he said you hadn’t had dinner as yet. Yours should be arriving any minute. Only fair,” he added as Eve’s gaze tacked briefly to him from the screen. “Teamwork, after all.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Peabody, how long has Ebersole lived at this address?”
