“Maybe both, because if someone checked-and he’s got to cover that-he needs to show up on the roster.”

“We know he has some e-skills. It wouldn’t be hard to do. And,” Roarke added, “if he had a brain, he’d have already wiped himself off that roster.”

“High probability on that. So tomorrow I’m going to start pushing somebody at the college to get me a list of students reporting a stolen ID, then start wading through that.”

“Why tomorrow?”

“Because it’s freaking and increasingly annoying Peace Day, and it’s late anyway, and nobody’s in Administration or whatever.”

“I can take care of that.”

Narrowing her eyes, she pointed a warning finger at him. “I just told you we have to be careful. I can’t have you hacking into Columbia’s student files.”

“Which is a shame as I’d enjoy that. But I can take care of this with a ’link call.”

“To who?”

“Why don’t we just start at the top, with the president of the university?”

She squinted. “You know the president of Columbia University?”

“I do, yes. Roarke Industries sponsors a scholarship, and has donated lab equipment from time to time. Plus, I spoke with her at length regarding Jamie.”

“So you can just pick up the ’link, give her a tag, no problem?”

“Well, we won’t know till we try, will we?”

He pulled his ’link out of his pocket, tapped his fingers on the screen to do a search. “She’s an interesting woman, with a nearly terrifying radar for bullshit. You’d like her.” He smiled as the call went through. “Peach. I’m sorry to interrupt your evening.”

Across the table, Eve heard the muted response, but not the words. Whatever it was, Roarke laughed.

“Well then, I’m delighted to be of help. As it happens, I’m about to ask for yours. You’re aware my wife is a police officer. Ah, is that so? Yes, indeed, she comes across quite well on screen. She’s heading an investigation that may have some connection to a student or former student at Columbia.”

He paused, listened, flicked a glance toward Eve. “Yes, that would have been her partner. I know the NYPSD appreciates your cooperation. They need to ask for more. I think it would be best if the lieutenant explains to you directly what she needs. Would you hold one moment?”

He tapped for hold, held out the ’link to Eve.

“Peach?” she said. “A university president named Peach?”

“Doctor Lapkoff.”

“Right.” Eve took the ’link, opened communications. Her first impression was of ice blue eyes so sharp they looked able to pierce steel. They beamed out of a cool, attractive face topped with short, straight brown hair.

“Lieutenant Dallas.” The tone was brisk, as no-nonsense as the do. “How can I help you?”

Within minutes, the bureaucratic wheels were turning. Eve passed the ’link back to Roarke. “She says she’ll have the data to me within an hour.”

“Then she will.”

“So I guess I better go back to work, and get ready for it.”

Back in her office, she started a match search with the Columbia list and MacMasters’s threat file, and a second for matches with his case files for the last five years. It would take time.

She used it to study the video again.

He’d stopped and started, she judged, a number of times. Each time Deena hesitated or went off script. Patience, focus. He had a message, and he wanted it delivered.

Blame the father, even though it was perfectly clear the victim spoke only under duress. He’d needed the words said. Daughter to father? Was that important? Child to parent? An issue or just the luck of the draw?

No, nothing was luck on this. Every choice deliberate. Direct to MacMasters, with no mention of the mother. Dad, Daddy-not the mother.

Never forgive. Hate. Never know why. Must pay.

Sins of the father? she wondered. Eye for an eye?

She sat, put her booted feet on the desk, shut her eyes.

The killer was older by a few years-maybe more-than the victim. Deliberate target, used to punish MacMasters. Blood kin.

Relative? Son?

Unacknowledged child?

Possible.

The cruelty of the act, the planning, the message sent-all pointed to intense offense. Against killer? Against relative or close connection to killer?

Note: Search MacMasters’s files for terminations, or arrests/wits/vics that resulted in death or extreme injuries. Add life sentences on and off planet.

Personal, extremely personal. This wasn’t business.

She opened her eyes when her unit signaled an incoming. Straightening, she brought up the data. Peach Lapkoff was a woman of her word.

That was the good part, Eve noted. The bad was just how many students at one freaking college managed to lose their IDs.

She needed more coffee.

With more fuel she began the laborious process of whittling down. Even as her unit reported no match on her initial search, she felt the pop.

“Powders, Darian, age nineteen. Lit major, second year. Replacement ID requested and paid for fifth of January, 2060.” She brought up her previous list, eyes narrowed. “And here you are again, Darian, hailing from Savannah. All data on current subject on screen.”

She swiveled, studied his ID. “Good looking guy, big, charming smile. You’re tailor made.”

Eve continued to study and wondered if she could be looking at a killer, or his dupe.

“One way to find out.”

She rose, tugged on the jacket she’d tossed over the back of her chair, then buzzed Roarke.

“Hey, I’ve got an angle I need to check out. I won’t be long.”

“Check out as in go out?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a possible. I want to work it now.”

“I’ll meet you downstairs.”

“You don’t have to-”

“Waste time, and neither do you. I’ll drive.”

When he clicked off she blew out a breath.

No point in arguing. And she could do a secondary run on Powders while Roarke played chauffeur.

He beat her downstairs and opened the door under the bitter eye of Galahad just as the vehicle he’d remoted on auto cruised to the front of the house.

“Where are we going and why?”

“Columbia, on-campus housing to interview a possible suspect. More likely a potential dupe. But either way that’s not my vehicle.”

Roarke glanced at the slick two-seat convertible, top down, in glittering silver. “It’s mine, and since I’m driving and it’s a very nice evening, I want an appropriate ride.”

She frowned all the way to the passenger seat. “I have an appropriate ride, which you gave me.”

“Safe, loaded, and deliberately unattractive. Key in the address,” he suggested, and gunned it down the drive.

She hated to admit it, but it felt damn good, the night, the air, the speed. Reminding herself it wasn’t about fun, she started a deeper run on Darian Powders.

“Kid’s from Georgia, requested new ID in January. He’s the right age, and he’s got a pretty face.”

“Isn’t school out for the summer? Why would he be on campus in June?”

“He’s taking a short summer semester, and interning at Westling Publishing. Lit major. He’s completed his second year at the college, carries a 3.4 grade average. No criminal, but his brother-who’s still in Georgia-has two illegals pops. Minor shit. He’s got an uncle in New York, an editor at the publishing house, who has a son a couple years older than this one who took a harder illegals hit. Did six months, and another three in rehab. Bust was Brooklyn’s, so not MacMasters.”

“Hardly motive for what was done to that girl.”

“It’s a start,” Eve said, and kept working the run as she enjoyed the ride.