by J. D. Robb
It took under an hour because traffic was nonexistent and she went in hot. And, what the hell, came back the same way.
She managed to avoid the relatives when she dashed into the house and up, but she heard them—hushed adult voices, babies crying, kids chattering.
And found Roarke already at work in his comp lab.
“He’s not there,” she announced. “And there’s no sign of duress or violence. I had a quick conversation with the woman he stood up. She’s worried now instead of pissed. And I woke McNab, had him run a trace on Asshole Joe’s ’link. Can’t trace it, because it’s turned off. If and when it’s turned back on, we’ll see. And why are your relatives up and swarming around at barely six in the morning?”
“Middle of the morning in Ireland,” he reminded her. “And that doesn’t address the fact many of them are farmers who’d be up at six in any case. I’m getting somewhere here, and might have better luck if you stopped talking.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, but stopped talking long enough to program more coffee.
“Reinhold’s got him.”
Roarke turned away from his work. Impatience simmered inside him—he knew he was close to something. But he could see, clearly, the stress on her face.
“Men will grab strange, darling, with the smallest provocation.”
“Yeah, pigs. But, he had reservations at a hot spot, which he never canceled or used. I woke up the manager at the restaurant for that one. She was not pleased. He left work bragging about a potential new client—a rich one—I woke up his boss for that—he was okay with it. And I’ve got McNab going in to check Asshole’s work comp and ’link, in case there’s something on there about the new client. But—”
“You think Reinhold—the new client—tagged Asshole Joe on his personal ’link, so no record there. And if Asshole Joe did any checking, he also did that on his personal PPC.”
“That’s just what I think, but McNab—who damn well better be okay with it—will make sure.
“He’s not dead yet.”
It wasn’t a question, Roarke noted, not even a supposition. She said it with absolute certainty.
“Because he’d want to prolong the power and excitement.”
“And the pain. He’s added time with each kill.” Thinking it through, sticking with logic, with pattern, she paced off the tension. “From the time line, Asshole Joe probably got to the location after eighteen hundred. About then anyway. Reinhold would want time. A day, maybe two. And he’d know, unless he’s cut himself off, and I don’t buy that, that today’s a big holiday. That Joe would be expected somewhere. Given the notifications, the media, the investigation, when he doesn’t show up today, we’d start looking.”
She paced around, gulping coffee. “He’d enjoy that. Having Joe tucked away, hurting him and watching reports on a search. We’ve got some time. Some hours, maybe, maybe a day. Then that’s it. He won’t have enough control to stretch it longer.”
She looked at Roarke then. “I’m going to screw up your big family holiday.”
“Ours,” he corrected. “And there’s not a single person who’ll be here today who doesn’t value a life more than your presence at a turkey carving. Not a single person who doesn’t understand what’s at stake.”
“Okay. Okay.” The sheer casualness of the support lowered her guilt threshold. “I’m going to go into my office. I have to keep the doors shut. I don’t want some kid wandering through and getting traumatized for life by my murder board. I’ve got Peabody coming in within an hour, and McNab will be in as soon as he clears Asshole Joe’s office equipment. I told him to come straight to you.”
“I’ll be happy to have him.”
“Roarke, as soon as you have anything I can use on new tenants, anything on that damn code—”
“You’ll be the first to know it. I’m close,” he told her again. “If I’m reading this right it won’t take more than an hour or two. If that. Give me some space now, and some precious quiet.”
“Yeah.” She took the rest of her coffee with her.
She dug in for a while, trying to retrace Joe’s steps—hitting holiday disinterest from cab companies until fear of her wrath won out.
If he’d taken a cab, he hadn’t caught one in front of his workplace, or within a block either way.
She put the Transit Authorities on it, requesting they search their recordings on the chance he’d taken a subway. Spotting him could narrow the area.
Then she tagged Mira. Rather than her usual stylish do, Mira wore her hair in a short little ponytail. The style, or lack of it, made her look younger to Eve’s eye.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s early.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been up nearly an hour. I have a lot of cooking to do.”
“You’re cooking?”
“Dennis and I are cooking, and my daughters threatened—that is, promised,” she amended with a smile, “to be here by eight to pitch in. What can I do for you?”
“He’s got another. Joe Klein. I’m trying to pare down the possible locations. I think he’s got his own place by now, in or very near his old neighborhood. He’d go for swank. We’re working on getting lists of new tenants, but there are a lot of possibilities.”
“An apartment or condo,” Mira said immediately. “Not a detached or semi-attached home.”
“Why?”
“He’s sociable, and wants to show off. He’s not a loner. Under it all, he wants a hive. He just wants to be important in that hive.”
“Okay.”
“Look first at newer buildings—shinier, if you understand me. His parents valued tradition, the old, the histories. He’ll want the opposite. And the most exclusive first.”
“I leaned that way for the same reasons, but factoring in the cost—”
“He won’t concern himself,” Mira interrupted, and firmly. “He has more money than he’d ever imagined, and he’s certain he’ll continue to bring in more. A place near clubs, arcades, bars, good shops, or that provides them. Status. He’s always wanted it, but lacked the ambition or the ethics to attain it. He believes he’s found it now.”
“Okay, yeah, I see that. It helps. Appreciate it.”
“I hope you find him, Eve. I’m going to say Happy Thanksgiving, because I believe you will.”
“Thanks. Same to you.”
She jumped on the map, shadowed out the detached and semis, any building more than a decade old unless it had been completely rehabbed in modern style.
“That’s better,” she murmured, studying the results.
She started to cross-reference with the tenant lists Roarke trickled to her.
Cursed when her desk ’link signaled. “Dallas,” she snapped just as Peabody hustled in.
“Lieutenant Dallas, this is Officer Stanski outta Fraud and Financial Crimes?”
“What do you want, Stanski?” she demanded, and seeing Peabody’s puppy dog plea, jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen and the AutoChef.
“We got an auto-alert came in about midnight, and it just got passed through. Not a lot of people working due to the holidays and all.”
“Move it along, Stanski, for God’s sake.”
“Well, sure. What I’m saying is we just got the notification, and it don’t make much sense altogether. It’s on an Anton Trevor, with this code we don’t get—not one of the standards—and it says to notify you asap. So I’m notifying you asap.”
“I’m Homicide, Stanski, not Fraud.”
“I got that, LT, sure.” Stanski’s round face transmitted utter earnestness just as her voice transmitted Queens.
“But it says you, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, clear on it. You want us to go ahead and shut down this Anton Trevor’s card, go through the process, or what?”
“I don’t … Hold on.” Something tingled at the base of her neck as she did a quick run.
“Computer, search and display ID for Anton Trevor, New York, New York. Age between twenty-three and twenty-eight.” That should cover it.
> Acknowledged. Working … Results displayed on screen one.
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”
“LT?” Stanski said, doubtfully.
“Don’t shut it down. Where was the card used?”
“Got that right here for you. Place called Bar on M, and another, few minutes later—Handy Mart. Both in the New York West, condo center. That’s at—”
“I’ve got the address.” It was one of her buildings. It was one of Roarke’s buildings. “You hold, Stanski. Don’t notify, don’t shut down. Don’t do a damn thing until you hear back from me.”
“No problem here.”
“Send me everything you’ve got, and hold,” she said, and clicking off jumped up just as Roarke pushed open her office doors.
“I’ve got him,” they said together. Both frowned. “What?”
Then Roarke held up a hand. “Go.”
“She—Farnsworth—must’ve tagged a fraud alert onto his new ID. It flagged for me when he used it. She saw the media reports, knew I was primary. He’s going by Anton—”
“Trevor,” Roarke finished. “I pieced that name from the codes she embedded in the transfers. He’s the newest tenant in—”
“New York West,” she finished in turn.
“And there we are.”
“We’ve got him!” Eve announced as Peabody came out with coffee and a bagel.
Peabody said, “What?”
“Reinhold’s using the aka Anton Trevor. Notify McNab. I want to move fast, but we’re going to do this smooth. Get him, Baxter, Trueheart—”
“Baxter left for his sister’s in Toledo last night,” Peabody interrupted.
“Shit. Make it Carmichael and Sanchez.” She paused a beat in case one of them was having breakfast in goddamn Toledo. “We’ll do a ’link briefing,” she continued. “I want six uniforms, seasoned, Peabody. Roarke, I need you to—”
“Notify building security,” he said. “I know this drill very well. I’ll take care of what you need. And to start.” He ordered the computer to display new data.
“That’s his level, and the blueprint of his apartment. I have all the building specs, so you’ll have the points of egress.”
“Makes it easy.” And rolling her shoulders moved to operation strategy. “Okay, private elevator—we’ll shut that down. Two other exits. We’ll close them off. He’ll be armed, and God knows with what, so we go in protective gear. I want eyes and ears in there asap. And I don’t want him looking over that terrace and seeing a bunch of cops moving in on the street. Let me see the big picture,” she asked Roarke, “so I can put this op together.”
As he did, she pulled out her ’link to update her commander.
McNab made it there just as she began the ’link briefing.
Straightforward was how Eve saw it. By the book. Tight and right.
She paced as she ran it through, wanting to move, to move, knowing she had to cover every contingency. She had her weapon strapped over the soft sweater—the same vivid blue as Roarke’s eyes—Sinead had knitted for her. She wore rough trousers and old boots, all the first to come to hand before dawn. And the flat, dangerous glint of cop-on-the-hunt in her eyes.
“That’s how it’s going to work,” she finished. “McNab, eyes and ears, Roarke security, and between you you’ll shut down all electronics and power to that unit on my go. Team A—me, Peabody, Officers Carmichael and Prince, main-level door. Team B—Detectives Carmichael and Sanchez, Officers Rhodes and Murray, second-level door—enter on my go. Officers Kenson and Ferris will hold position here, block and disperse any and all civilians from entering the hot zone. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No lights, no sirens, and no black-and-whites within a block of the target building. Protective gear is worn. This is not optional. Again, if the subject is seen exiting the building before this op is in place, take him down. If he’s seen inside the building, track but do not engage. We’re moving,” she added. “Go in soft, wait for my orders. All weapons, medium stun.”
She turned, snagged the coat Roarke had brought in, then her stride forward hitched when she noticed Sinead standing in the doorway someone had neglected to secure. She had a baby on her hip, a hand on a gleefully fascinated Sean’s shoulder.
“Ah, we have to go out. Sorry. We’re in a hurry.”
She left it at that, double-timed it out and down the stairs. Roarke paused, just for a moment. “We’ll be back before too long, and I’ll let you know.”
Then he was gone, too, rushing out with the rest.
“Nan!” Sean sent Sinead a look of awe and joy. “They’re after the bad guy.”
“They are, yes. Well then, let’s go down, have a little tea.”
Reinhold slept the sleep of the satisfied, and woke to Joe’s harsh, sobbing screams.
“Jesus.” Reinhold rolled, stretched, yawned. “What a pussy.”
He hit the bedroom AC for hot chocolate—extra whipped cream—and stood at his window wall, looking out at New York, at the city he knew feared him, while he drank.
When Joe didn’t show up at his mother’s by about noon, Reinhold calculated, to hang out with his stepfather, his brother, and his brother’s ugly wife and uglier kids, his fat cousin, Stu, who’d have his piss-faced grandmother in tow, they and the city would fear him more.
All around the Thanksgiving tables he’d be the talk. Jerry Reinhold, a killer who did what he wanted, who he wanted, when he wanted.
Taking his time, he dressed—crap clothes again because holiday or not he was working—then went into the spare room to activate the droid.
“Good morning, sir. Someone appears to be in distress.”
“Don’t worry about him. Don’t talk to him or listen to him. Got it, Asshole?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Go down and fix me, what is it, yeah, eggs Benedict, a couple slices of toast with strawberry jelly, and whatever ought to go with it. Then come up here and clean up my bedroom, take care of my clothes. I’ll let you know when to come down again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Before he went down himself, Reinhold checked himself out in the mirror. He thought he might dress up later, catch some football—which reminded him to tell the droid to get him some prime Giants tickets. Maybe he’d have some fancy drink out on the terrace, too.
He’d planned on keeping Joe around another night, having some fun there. But if the fucker was going to keep screaming …
He strolled down.
Joe looked worse for wear, that’s for sure. His face—and he’d always been a conceited fuck—all bloody and bruised. A lot busted in there. The shallow cuts had stopped bleeding, something he’d fix after breakfast. And the burns looked like circles and streaks of charcoal.
Reinhold picked up the sap, gave Joe an absent smack. “Shut the fuck up, or I’ll slit your throat and be done with it.”
“Please, God, please.” The words came garbled through broken teeth. “I think I’m dying. I’m hurt bad. Don’t hurt me anymore, please, man, please. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll give you anything you want.”
“Oh yeah? That’s something maybe. You’ve got some money, Joe. The Vegas money, and more. Maybe if you give me your passcodes so I can take it, I’ll let you go.”
“Anything. You can have it. I—I’ve got my uncle Stan’s passcodes, too.”
“Is that so?” With a smile, Reinhold gestured to a nearby chair. “Set me up there,” he ordered the droid.
“I found them when I was helping him out with some stuff. He’s got some real scratch, Jerry. I’ll get it for you. Just let me go. Promise to let me go, and I’ll get you all of it.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Please. I need water. Can I have some water, please?”
Easing into his seat, Reinhold took his knife and fork from the tray the droid gave him.
“Can’t you see I’m having breakfast? Shut up before you piss me off. You,” he said to the droid. “Turn on the sc
reen. It’s got to be about time for the parade.” He smiled, cut into his eggs. “I’d hate for us to miss the parade, Joe. Just lie back and enjoy.”
22
EVE COORDINATED WITH HER TEAM EN ROUTE. She couldn’t afford the time or the exposure for a final briefing on site. Too many people with too many ways to get the word out that cops were gathering at New York West. A leak to the media, on the Internet, might alert Reinhold.
She believed, strongly, Asshole Joe was still alive. She believed they had time. But the very fact Joe was an asshole might tip Reinhold over the edge.
She’d be damned if they’d be minutes too late this time.
When she said as much to Roarke, he touched a hand to hers. “We’ll have him locked down minutes after we arrive. And we’ll have your eyes and ears up minutes after that.”
Minutes, she thought. They had to be on her side this round.
“Luck’s turned,” she stated. “Luck’s turned our way. You’ve got to see it that way. We hit on him, both of us, almost at the same time. It all fell together.”
“It fell together because you haven’t let up on it for three days and nights.”
“That, and Ms. Farnsworth. She pulled off a hell of a thing.”
“I admit, I wish I could have met her.”
“You wish you could’ve hired her,” Eve added, and he laughed. “You know me very well.”
“Sanchez’s on site, Dallas,” Peabody told her from the back. “Detective Carmichael’s less than a minute out. Uniforms are checking in.”
“Talking to your security head now, Roarke,” McNab announced. “They’ve cleared the parking space you directed. Have eyes trained on the hallways on Reinhold’s two floors.”
“Good enough, and here we are.”
“It’s really pretty.” Peabody craned her head to take in the tower. “Shiny, and all that glass just sparkles.”
“Head in the game, Peabody,” Eve ordered, and jumped out the minute Roarke pulled to the curb. “Record on. All records on. All teams move into position. I want all elevators but his blocked from his floor the minute Team B reaches his second level.”