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Peabody opened the side door. “McNab’s looking now. Sweepers and the meat wagon on the way.”
“Has to be the hacker,” Eve said, as much to herself as Peabody. “The driver. He’d have to know who was on, the unit number assigned to the pickup, the basic give and flow of how they communicate. Hack into the hospital system, get the log, listen to a few runs. Hospital dispatch isn’t expecting a hijacking. They’ve got no reason to push the communication. It’s all A-fucking-OK.”
She marked the communication center for EDD. “And now we have his voice print. Stupid asshole. I want to see if EDD can enhance as well as print. See if they pick up any chatter from the back.”
Peabody nodded as she texted the instructions. “Do you have a line on COD?”
“Smothered him. Strapped him down, covered his mouth, pinched his nose. The bruising’s like a signpost for it. Face-to-face this time,” she considered. “They knew each other. It’s more personal. Still business, just doing the job, but it’s like firing a coworker. It’s got that personal element. I want this area secured. We need to find Jake Ingersol.”
“You don’t think—”
“I didn’t think they’d kill the accountant.” She shoved at her hair. “Listen, I’ll find out where Ingersol is. You contact Gibbons. He should know Parzarri’s dead. And we’re going to have the media hum this time, as soon as they put together that two accountants from the same firm were murdered within days of each other.”
“Not much we can do about that.”
Maybe a preemptive strike, she thought. And wondered if she could squeeze in enough time into coaxing, maneuvering, or bribing Nadine into spinning the story as she needed it spun.
She contacted the WIN offices as she drove. “This is Lieutenant Dallas. Is Jake Ingersol in?”
“All three partners are meeting at the new offices this morning, Lieutenant. Do you need the address?”
“I’ve got it.”
“Would you like me to contact Mr. Ingersol and tell him you’re hoping to speak to him?”
“No, don’t bother.”
As she drove back across town yet again, she heard Peabody murmuring condolences to Gibbons, and skillfully, she’d give Peabody the chops there, evading direct answers on the murder.
“Set me up another consult with Mira, will you?” she asked Peabody when her partner ended the conversation. “Her admin’s less likely to try to fry out your eyeballs over the ’link. I need some direction on these assholes.”
She rubbed at the back of her neck, thinking of Parzarri, strapped down on the gurney, watching his killer’s face as he smothered. Twisting, struggling, helpless.
He’d been dirty, that was clear to her. But not a killer. Or he hadn’t had the opportunity to decide if he could or would take part in the murder of his coworker. He’d never known.
Now, he was dead because she hadn’t anticipated, she hadn’t seen the logic in killing him, in eliminating what must have been a valuable cog in the wheel.
Maybe she should’ve taken Roarke up on that trip to Vegas, confronted him then and there. Or met the damn shuttle instead of going to the hospital.
Hindsight, she thought, was a cold, hard bitch.
“You’ve got a meet with Mira when you can work it in,” Peabody told her.
“That’s it? Just like that?”
“I played nice.”
“Okay, that does it. You’re making all my session appointments with Mira. I freaking surrender to her admin, just like I’m going to freaking surrender—again—to vending machines. It’s not worth the aggravation.”
“It’s not our fault.” Peabody let out a sigh, leaned back. “I’m pretty good at the self-blame game. I can usually win. It’s hard to lose anyway when I’m playing myself. But Parzarri isn’t on us.”
“I miscalculated. He’s dead.”
“Maybe you miscalculated, but how do you calculate this? You were right before when you said killing him was stupid and wasteful. How do you run a mega-million-dollar company when you make stupid, wasteful decisions? He was incommunicado, they knew that. He didn’t know about Dickenson, so he had no reason to betray them even if he’d wanted to. He’s been raking in the dough, and finding ways so they rake it in. As far as they know the files on them are all in their possession, so those numbers can be manipulated before they’re reaudited. Why wouldn’t they keep their same guy on that?”
“I figured they would. I was wrong.”
“No—I mean yes—but they shouldn’t have killed him, not with the scenario that’s in place. If they worried about letting it ride, that you’d keep building a case, keep digging, okay, move him out. He’s in the wind—and in the wind, hell, Dallas, they could’ve laid it all on him somehow. They could’ve planted bogus evidence that made it look like he ordered the hit, or that he’d been working with somebody who ordered it. He’s off doing the mambo in Argentina or wherever, still keeping the books—new name, new face. It’s a good investment. And they pin it on him, maybe even have him fiddle around so it looks like he skimmed from them. Now they’re a victim, too.”
