by J. D. Robb
“Dump the discs every twenty-four, so the night in question’s long gone. No logs.”
“You brought me squat?”
“Would I bring you squat?” He took the coffee from Trueheart, sat, stretched out his legs. “Private garage, with monthly rates that cost more than the rent on my apartment and the kid’s here combined. Key card and passcode to get in. Place holds a half-dozen vehicles, and let me tell you, they were all flash. Vic’s is a sinewy all-terrain. Four-seater. Loaded.”
“That’s fascinating, Baxter.”
“Gets that way. We’re looking it over—had to call the manager in, and he’s the one gave us squat. But while we’re there, this guy whose ride is this classic Sunstorm—Triple X model, jet charger, six on the floor. Black and shiny as the mouth of hell, silvered glass roof. You know the model?” he asked Roarke. “First run in 2035?”
“I do indeed. A very fine machine.”
“I nearly wept when he drove it in.”
“It was a sweet ride,” Trueheart agreed, then flushed a little when Eve flicked him a glance.
“Sounds like you boys had tons of fun playing with the toys. But what does that give me?”
“In the course of the conversation, the Sunstorm’s owner—one Derrick Newman—stated that while he’d never actually met Sloan, he had admired his vehicle, and was considering purchasing one like it for hard weather and off-roading.”
“Maybe he can get a deal on it seeing as the owner’s dead.”
“While he’d never met Sloan,” Baxter repeated, “he had noticed that the all-terrain was, always and habitually, backed into its slot. It was parked in that manner a week ago Wednesday at approximately seven P.M. when Newman retrieved his own vehicle to pick up his current squeeze and drive to Oyster Bay for a rehearsal dinner for his brother’s wedding—which was the following Saturday. He returned his vehicle to the garage at just after three on Thursday morning as the current squeeze did not deign to put out that evening. At which time he noticed, with some curiosity, that the all-terrain was front-in.”
Eve pursed her lips. “That may not be squat.”
“It ain’t. When Newman mentioned Sloan’s parking habit, the manager corroborated. Sloan’s rented that space for three years, and has never parked front-in. Until a week ago Wednesday night or early Thursday morning.”
“I want that vehicle impounded. I want the sweepers going over it molecule by molecule.”
“Thought you would. I made the call while we were there. It’s on its way in now.”
“Good work.”
“Feel like I’ve done something, anyway,” Baxter said with a shrug. “I’ve been talking to Palma every day. She wants to come in, pack up her sister’s things as soon as the scene’s cleared.”
“Working on that.” Eve filled him in, nodded toward Peabody and McNab, who came in as she was wrapping up.
“Bagged, tagged, logged, delivered.” Peabody yawned as she and McNab dumped evidence bags on Eve’s desk. “Money smells pretty. ’Specially lots of it.”
“Get her coffee,” Eve ordered.
“Have this first.” Roarke held out another booster he’d already poured.
“Looks yucky,” Peabody said and pouted at it.
“I made it just for you.”
“Aww.” With stars in her heavy eyes, she gulped it down. “Is yucky.”
“Yes, I know. You, too, Ian.”
“Energy booster? I kinda like them.” He drank his without complaint while Trueheart passed around more coffee.
“Now, if everyone’s refreshed.” Eve unsealed the evidence bags marked with Peabody’s initials that contained the Bullock Foundation discs. “We’ll start with last year, work back.”
She plugged the first disc into her computer. “Display data, screen one.”
Not encoded she thought, and would have done a little happy dance if she’d had the energy. “Roarke? Translation?”
“Monthly accounts,” he verified. “I’d say Randall Sloan’s personal copy. It’s spelled out quite clearly here, unlike the files registered with the firm. You see his monthly fee.” Roarke picked up a laser, pointed. “And Madeline Bullock’s, Winfield Chase’s commissions—as they’re listed. Also deductions for legal fees, Cavendish, in New York. The London law firm takes a cut through monthly retainer, and billable hours.”
“Which means, in English.”
“The way these accounts were done, officially, the funneling and turnovers are more clearly documented here. And very, very illegal. The tax hounds will be wiping drool off their faces for years.”
“I’m looking at income here,” Eve said, scrolling through. “Primarily through individuals. Fees out of that to other individuals, and some institutions. Hospitals, medicals…food, lodging, transpo.
“Samuel and Reece Russo, a quarter million paid.”
“That’s an installment,” Roarke explained. “One of four.”
“A million for Sam and Reece, and a like amount from a Maryanna Clover. More of the same—you got, what, four—no, that’s five installment payments here from individuals, just in the first quarter of last year. What are they paying for?”
“The expenses attached to that income might tell the tale.” Roarke ordered the expenditures on-screen. “The Russos’ fee has a ten-thousand-euro payment, per installment, to a Sybil Hopson, a two-thousand-euro payment as monthly retainer to a Leticia Brownburn, M.D., with a lump payment of ten thousand in October of last year. Another, listed as donation to Sunday’s Child. Legal fees come to…twelve thousand for this transaction—as paid by the foundation.”
“So for a million, in what they’re finagling as primarily tax-free income, they expend under a hundred thousand. Good return,” Eve decided. “What’s Sunday’s Child?”
“Child placement agency,” the half-asleep Peabody muttered. “London-based.”
Eve spun around. “What?”
“Huh? What?” Peabody pushed up from her slouch in the chair, blinked rapidly. “Sorry. I must’ve zoned out.”
“Sunday’s Child.”
“Oh, we switched to the kidnapping. It’s one of the agencies on the list. London-based, with offices in Florence, Rome, Oxford, Milan, ah, Berlin. Places. Sorry, I’ll need to review my notes.”
“This agency is on the list in Tandy’s file, and appears as a major beneficiary of the Bullock Foundation?” She looked at Baxter. “Coincidence is hooey, right?”
“Words to live by. Christ, Dallas, are we dovetailing here?”
“Trueheart, run Leticia Brownburn, M.D., London. I want to know if she’s associated with Sunday’s Child. Roarke, I need you to go through these files as quickly as you can, see if we’ve got a pattern. If there are other like agencies, birthing centers.”
Movement was quick. Since every unit in the two offices was being used, Eve pulled out her PPC. “Data run on Russo, Samuel, and Russo, Reece,” she began and read off the identification numbers Sloan had listed on the file.
Working…Russo, Samuel, DOB: 5 August, 2018, married to Russo, Reece, nee Bickle, 10 May, 2050. Residence: London, England; Sardinia, Italy; Geneva, Switzerland; Nevis. One child, male, DOB: 15 September, 2059, through private adoption.
“That’s enough, hold run. Begin data run on Hopson, Sybil,” she ordered and read off the identification number.
Working…Hopson, Sybil, DOB: 3 March, 2040. Parents—
“Skip that. Residence and offspring.”
Resides Oxford University. Student. No offspring. One registered pregnancy, through term with live birth, male, 15 September, 2059. Placed through private adoption.
“Placement agency used for both Russo and Hopson.”
Working…Sunday’s Child, London.
“It’s not illegal, Dallas.” Baxter stood beside her. “I don’t know the ins and outs of private adoptions or surrogacy in Europe, but they could slide with this here.”
“Payments are too high,” Eve disagreed. “This girl sold her kid, and selling hu
man beings is illegal, globally.”
“You can call the fee educational incentive, expense reimbursement. They’d go through some shit, but they’d probably scrape it off.”
“Maybe. But they hid the money, doctored the accounts so they fell well under the acceptable limit, left the bulk of the income unreported. And if this is what it looks like, they are, in essence, running a baby-selling operation at a big, fat profit. They won’t look good on the media reports when this hits. More, they killed three people to keep this buried.”
“This is what Palma’s sister stumbled onto,” Baxter murmured.
“I doubt she knew exactly what it entailed, but she dug around and got a strong clue. Baxter, there are other missing women like Tandy, and at least one who was killed, along with the fetus. It’s going to come back to this.” She nodded toward the screen. “Right back to this.”
“Grabbing women off the damn street? Stealing their kids?”
“Something like that. If these women contacted Sunday’s Child, maybe even started proceedings. Fees collected by the foundation.”
It was more than pieces now. The picture was full and complete in front of her. “Then, say the woman changes her mind, takes off. These women relocated, so maybe they felt threatened, or were afraid they’d be pressured, legally pursued. They’re snatched close to term. There’s a reason for that.”
“Shorter wait time for the product,” he said grimly.
“When the product’s delivered, the woman’s no longer needed, and is disposed of. Keeps those expenses way down. Work with Roarke, find me someone who paid the baby fee where the expenses don’t follow the rest of the pack.”
“I’ve got it.”
“Trueheart.”
“Lieutenant, Brownburn is on the board of Sunday’s Child, and the OB in residence.”
“Peabody, is there a branch of the agency in New York?”
“Europe only.”
“Another agency then, one that pops on the files. They didn’t haul her back to England, not this close to term. They want to be sure the product is safe and viable. Maybe New Jersey, Connecticut. Maybe…”
On an oath she leaped to the desk ’link. The big house with the blind windows. You can see out but you can’t see in, she thought as she hurriedly contacted Cher Reo.
Incognito, my ass.
“Jesus, Dallas, just how many times tonight are you going to ruin my evening?” Reo pushed at her tousled blonde hair. “I’m about to get lucky.”
“You’re going to get luckier. I need a warrant.”
“I got your damn warrants, and let me tell you, I worked my well-toned ass off for them.”
“I need a search-and-seize for the Bullock residence on East End Avenue. All contents.”
“Oh? Is that all?” Reo’s faint Southern drawl went sweet as honey.
“I have reason to believe they’re holding a woman there against her will. A very pregnant woman whose life will be over if she delivers before we get to her. If she’s not being held there, I need authority to search the premises for proof of her whereabouts.”
“Dallas, are they killers or kidnappers?”
“One’s led to the other. Reo, this woman’s been missing since Thursday. I may already be too late. Don’t make me later.”
“I need more than ‘you have reason to believe,’ Dallas. I tap-danced my way to your mandatory DNA. I push for a second warrant on a separate matter, the lawyers for the other team are going to scream harassment.”
“I don’t have time—” Eve cut herself off, breathed. “I’m going to put Peabody on, and she’ll give you the song. I’m putting an op together, Reo. With or without a warrant, I’m going in within the hour.”
Jabbing a finger toward the ’link, Eve strode into Roarke’s office.
“I’ve got your pattern, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her. “A maximum of ten children placed per year, at birth, for fee, a minimum of four. Over the past eight years, sixty-five placements, for a gross profit of sixty-five-million euros.”
“I’m getting a warrant for the East End house. I think they could be holding Tandy there. Baxter.”
“Got some way uptown e-toys here,” he said without looking up from the screen. “I’ve got six out of that sixty-five where the expenditures were significantly lower than the others, and in one case where the buy fee was reimbursed.”
“Jones, Emily, Middlesex and/or London, England.”
“That’s the name listed on the first and only expenditure to an individual other than the medicals on the reimbursed fee. And, Dallas? Tandy’s on here.” McNab looked over at her. “One payment to her late last May, recorded as returned in full early June.”
“Changed her mind, paid them back. But that didn’t do the trick. We’re going in.”
In her office she outlined the layout, as she knew it, of the house.
“The subject is most likely being held on the second or third floor. Third gets my vote. She may be restrained, and is undoubtedly guarded, certainly by cams. There are at least two suspects and one servant droid on the premises. Given the situation, we have to assume there is a medical as well, droid or human. Both suspects should be considered violent.”
She looked at Roarke. “Can you compromise their security by remote?”
“I can, yes.”
“Once the security is down, we go in fast. The priority is to locate and secure the safety of the subject. Peabody, you and Trueheart will head that. McNab, I need you and Roarke to take down any electronics, including droids. Baxter, that leaves the suspects to you and me. They resist, they’re restrained.”
“Any and all means?”
“I want them talking. Walking’s optional. Communicators on Channel A throughout. I want to know the minute the subject is located, and her condition. Here’s how we move.”
She turned back to the wall screen where she’d sketched the bones of the East End mansion.
When she’d finished, she went to the bedroom, strapped on her clutch piece, checked her primary weapon and her restraints. Then, because her eyes felt hot and gritty, she ran ice-cold water in the bathroom sink.
Sucking in her breath, she plunged her face into it.
She came up gasping, then her eyes met Roarke’s in the mirror over the sink. “Don’t tell me I’m burning low.”
“I don’t need to state the obvious, the other portion of that being this can’t wait until you’ve recharged.”
“You either.” Still dripping, she turned, touched his cheek. “You look pale. You hardly ever do.”
“The past couple of days remind me that you couldn’t pay me twice what I already have to be a cop.”
“It’s not about the money, it’s about the adventure.” When he laughed, she grabbed a towel, scrubbed it over her wet face. “I think about that dream I had where all this was tangled together. And son of a bitch, it was. It is. If I’d seen it before—”
“How?”
“I don’t know, but if I had, Tandy would be at home in her own bed right now, and Bullock, Chase, and the rest of them would be in cages.” She tossed the towel aside. “Jesus, Roarke, Jesus, the way I went in there tonight, got in their face. I put the pressure on them, and if they panic because of that, or push up the schedule…She was in there. Goddamn it, Tandy was in there, I know it. While we sat there and that bitch poured tea.”
“And we wouldn’t know that yet if you hadn’t followed a hunch and sent Peabody and McNab back to Sloan’s to look for records. No one found the others, Eve. No one got close to finding them. Remember that.”
“I will, when and if we do find her, and she’s still breathing.” She checked the time. “I’m not waiting any longer for the warrant. Let’s line it up and knock it down.”
Sometime in the last hour it had started to snow. Thick, fat, wet flakes. Her team and the electronics Roarke and McNab had selected for the op were loaded into one of Roarke’s burly all-terrains.
As they rode, she visualized the interio
r of the Bullock house. Wide foyer, stairs to the left, living area to the right. Glass doors on east wall to terrace. Possible escape route.
But they wouldn’t run, she didn’t believe they’d run. They were too steeped in their own importance to run.
Chase wouldn’t be served with the mandatory until morning. She bet he and Mommy were both sleeping the sleep of the conscienceless by now. And they were about to get a nasty wake-up call.
Roarke stopped the van a half-block down and across the street from the mansion. “Let’s break out the toys, Ian.”
“Ahead of you.”
McNab sat crosslegged on his seat working the controls of a small keyboard. “Now this is frosty. I already programmed the coordinates. Ready to engage, if you’re set.”
“Baxter? Why don’t you change seats with me.” Though he made his way to the back, Roarke let McNab work the controls. “Go ahead.”
“Infrared and heat sensors engaged. Image on-screen—this bitch is fast! Okay, looks like we got two warm bodies, second level. Horizontal. Sleepy-by. Same room, same bed. I thought we were looking for mother and son.”
“We are,” Eve said as something twisted in her belly.
“Oh. Sick. Two warm bodies,” he repeated. “Second level, east, second room.”
“Only two,” Eve demanded and he sent her an apologetic look.
“That’s what I’m getting. Showing body heat, heart rate, mass and density, height and weight. This is wild-ass equipment, and it gives me the droid count—three first level, one third—but I’m not seeing any sign of a third human. And neither one of these images shows a baby on board.”
“Ian,” Roarke murmured, “have a look here.” Roarke tapped an area on the third level with a fingertip.
“Blank space where there can’t be blank space. Cold room. Jeez, I must be slipping. It’s shielded against the sensors.”
“Can you get by them?” Eve demanded.
“This’ll take a few minutes,” Roarke told her.
“I’m not waiting. We’re on go—” She broke off when her ’link beeped. “Reo. Tell me you got it.”