She finished her coffee, went out for Peabody.
“With me. Run a Jenna Lynn Delaney out of Savannah, Georgia. The task force is looking at her.”
“You got something out of him?”
“Yeah. We had a meeting of the minds.” She headed for the glides.
“Okay, got her. Jenna Lynn Delaney, Savannah, Caucasian female, age thirty. Blond and blue, Dallas. A looker.”
Peabody angled the screen so Eve could see the face,
Short blond hair, heavy fringe over big ocean-blue eyes, heart-shaped face, wide mouth, slight overbite.
Yeah, a looker. And one of the thieves Roarke had spoken of.
“Five-seven,” Peabody continued, “one-twenty. Father unknown, mother, Constance Delaney, deceased, no sibs. Ah, mother died at thirty-nine, and Delaney went into the foster system. Got a juvie record. Shoplifting, truancy, got a B and E, all before she hit eighteen. Nothing since.”
“She got better at it.”
“She’s got an address in Savannah. No marriages, cohabs, offspring. Lists her occupation as security consultant.”
Roarke had hit one. “Well, that fits.”
“She could be Fancy Blonde. Younger than we thought, but maybe.”
“Yeah. Dig for travel to New York, aliases, client list, all of it.”
They jogged down the metal steps of the garage. “Send the ID shot to Barrister House, see if any of the staff recognize her.”
She got behind the wheel, plugged in the lawyer’s address in the Financial District.
“Abernathy gave me enough to start. Probably the task force has more on her. But we can dig, too. She’s a thief,” Eve said as she pulled out of the garage. “Probably works cons. Looks-wise, yeah, she’d have been the type Henry Barrister would go for.”
“I’m getting v-mail all around, Dallas. I’ll send the photo.”
“Send her data, so far, to EDD. They could check her through the underground.”
“Got that. I have to say her data’s really clean after the juvie bounces, and there’s not much of it. Her security deal—by appointment or referral only, no address listed. Travel, travel… Nothing recent to NewYork. Checking on the time frame she’d have been at Barrister House. Nothing.”
“Does she own a vehicle?”
“Yeah, two. An all-terrain and a Road Star convertible. That’s a nice one. Back to travel. She came to New York three years ago, first-class shuttle, round trip, eight-day stay.”
“Find where.”
“That’s going to take a while.”
“She may have a place she likes to stay. We find it, we trace her. Or she may do the stay-with-rich-old-men thing.”
“I’ll dig, but it won’t be quick. At least we have a name, we have a face.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s the name or face, but we’ve got something.” And maybe Roarke could find more. “Odds are she’s a professional thief—it’s a very neat fit—and this task force wouldn’t look at her unless she fit.”
She passed Garrett Beyer’s office building in a hunt for parking. Two blocks later, she stopped Peabody’s heart by hitting vertical, zooming across the street, and dropping into a slot with very few inches to spare.
“I’m okay, I’m okay. Just need to reboot my entire system.”
“Do it while we walk. I want this tied up, then we push on the blonde, whether it’s this Delaney or somebody else.”
