by J. D. Robb
Before I could begin on my parents—I always embellish there as they’re tedious, ordinary people in reality—she told me everything I knew was a lie.
She told me her name—Gina MacMillon—not the name she’d given me to arrange the meeting. I had some vague recollection of that name, but didn’t, right away, connect it to the woman I’d been told was my great-aunt who died in the Urbans.
She, this woman with the compelling eyes, told me she was my true grandmother. That my grandfather had been a great man. Not the soldier who’d done no more than follow the orders of other men, but a great man. A visionary, a leader, and a martyr.
I shouldn’t have believed her, but I did. It explained so much. She and this great man had worked together, fought together, had been lovers. The child they’d created, my mother, had been stolen, and she herself, taken and kept prisoner by her former husband. She’d tried to escape, many times, with the child. Eventually, her captor beat her, left her for dead. Though she tried to find her way back to the child, back to my grandfather, the world was in pieces. She learned the government had captured my grandfather, and she had no choice but to go into hiding.
With a new name and identity, she’d struggled to survive. Eventually she’d married, and well, and used the resources gained there to try to find the child stolen from her. Years of searching led her to me. She understood now the daughter was lost to her. Women were weak—most women—but her grandson, so like the man she’d loved, was found.
I asked what she wanted from me. Nothing, she claimed. Instead she had much to give me, to tell me, to teach me. In me she saw the potential and the power taken from her and my grandfather.
His name was Guiseppi Menzini.
“There’s more, Lieutenant,” Callendar told her. “A lot more.”
“I need the name she’s using, a description—where she’s living.”
“He doesn’t list any of that, at least not that I’ve found. I haven’t gotten through it all, but I did searches. He refers to her as Gina or Grandmother. I’ve got that he started the journal because she told him Menzini kept journals, and he went on a hunt for them when she told him to. She said they were his legacy, and his gateway to power. And she knew his mother kept them.”
“She spun him a bunch of lies. Menzini’s the hero, and MacMillon, who gave her forgiveness and took another man’s kid for his, the villain. And she counted on sentiment and loyalty—her half-sister’s for her, to keep her things, her papers, to believe she’d died trying to save the kid. Bitch. Peabody, get Baxter and Trueheart to the St. Regis bar, with a picture of Callaway. Maybe somebody remembers who he sat with on the date of the journal entry. It takes awhile to tell that story. Callendar, where else did they meet?”
“Her place. He doesn’t say where it is. But he talks about her sending a limo to pick him up. Makes him feel like a BFD. The way he talked about it, driving along the river, the views from her place—totally fancied-out—it sounds Upper East Side. Doorman, big lobby, private elevator. So a condo. Oh, and he liked that she had droids—no live help.”
“So she’s got money, or access to it. She sought him out. She’s got an agenda. She made him important, exactly what he wanted. She knew that. She knew which notes to play.”
“She’s been studying him,” Teasdale put in.
“It’s why the banking for the drugs, the equipment didn’t show on his financials. She’s fronting all that. She may have gotten the makings for him, may have sources there Strong couldn’t find. Out of the country, or deep down—some of her old contacts from Red Horse.”
“Why, after all these years?”
“Menzini died a few months ago, right? Maybe that was her trigger. I’ll ask her when I find her. She coached him, taught him. She lit the match.” As she calculated, Eve’s eyes narrowed, flattened. “He’s sitting down there now figuring out the best way to contact her. He’s got to figure his rich grandmother will buy him top lawyers, get him off. He’ll be thinking that.”
“But she won’t,” Teasdale said.
“No, hell no. He’s caught. No more use to her. Did Menzini’s death start this?” Eve wondered. “Is this some kind of revenge on her part? Or maybe a tribute. Fuck it.” She pushed her hands through her hair.
“We did an aging program,” Feeney told her. “We’ve got what she should look like now, but—”
“She’d have changed her face,” Eve finished. “A long time ago.
She faked her own death, she can’t keep the same face. She’ll have heard we’ve got him. Will she worry he’ll give her up?”
“Why didn’t he?” Teasdale demanded, and for the first time since Eve met her, the agent looked mildly distressed. “It would have given him a bargaining chip.”
“He’s smart enough to know that, and to keep that chip in his pocket. If she doesn’t come through for him, buy his way out, he’ll roll on her.”
“She’ll poof. Not your fault,” McNab said to Callendar. “Just bad luck. But she’s got the money and resources, so she’ll blow.”
“Start running any and all private shuttles booked or alerted for flight prep since the media conference. Let’s start running high-dollar condos, Upper East, riverview, fancy lobby, doorman.”
“With a terrace,” Callendar called out. “I’ve got them having drinks on her terrace—facing east. He can see Roosevelt Island.”
“She can’t help him,” Teasdale pointed out. “If she tries, we’ll have her. If she doesn’t we still have him. HSO will certainly use all resources to locate her, but I don’t understand the urgency.”
“She’s got the formula.”
“I suspect she’s had it all along, or enough of it with this much time, and the financial backing, she certainly could have created and used it before this.”
“We’ve just given her a reason to use it.”
“For him?” Teasdale shook her head. “I don’t believe she has that much sentiment in her.”
“Menzini’s dead. The daughter’s useless to her. Nothing to her. But the grandson? He’s her legacy. He’s shown her, twice, he has Menzini in him. She can’t get to him, so she’s going to want payback. Shit, shit!” Eve yanked out her ’link. “Weaver and Vann. Maybe she’ll want to finish what he started.”
She got Weaver’s voice mail, left an urgent message, but managed to reach Vann.
“Lieutenant. We heard about Lew. I can’t believe—”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“At home. We closed the offices, and—”
“Stay there. Don’t answer the door until my officers get there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. Stay inside, door secure. Where’s Weaver?”
“I’m not sure. She was upset, naturally. I assume she went home.”
“Stay inside,” she repeated, then tagged Jenkinson. “Get over to Stevenson Vann’s apartment. Keep it in lockdown until I say different. Nobody in, nobody out. Send Sanchez and Carmichael over to Nancy Weaver’s. If she’s home, keep her there. If she’s not, I need to know. Go now.”
She went straight to Whitney when he came inside. “I need Mira and Reo secured. As well as Chief Tibble and yourself, sir. Gina MacMillon may target the people who took down her grandson.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What do we know about her?” Eve demanded. “Attractive woman in her late seventies, early eighties. Wealthy. Patient. Jesus, she’s like a spider. A trained soldier. More, a kind of operative. Could she have made contact with Menzini while he was alive?”
“I can’t say.” Again, Teasdale looked mildly distressed. “I would doubt it.”
“Why wasn’t he executed? They still did that back then. He was a war criminal, a mass murderer, a child abductor, a rapist. Name it.”
“My guess? He was useful.”
“Making chemical and bio weapons?”
“It’s possible. His mind was twisted, but he had brilliance in certain areas.”
“Enough he’d have found a way to get word to her. To keep the fire going. The world didn’t end, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Or shift focus. He made his living selling chem weapons. Maybe that’s how she makes hers.”
Teasdale’s face lit. “I’ll start a search for known dealers in her age span.”
“Bugger that.” Roarke sat back, pulled the tie out of his hair. “I’ve got her.”
“How? Jesus.” Eve all but leaped on him. “Let me see.”
“There was a painting in Callaway’s office. The only piece of any taste or style in the whole place. It struck me at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. It took me some time, but I found it. On screen.”
Eve frowned at the image of long, flower-decked steps, a fountain at their feet. They led to an old building, looked European to her.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s the Spanish Steps, in Rome.”
“Menzini hit Rome, and was taken there.”
“So I recalled, a bit belatedly. This painting was done just prior to the war, by an Italian artist who died in Menzini’s attack.”
“Too much coincidence, and coincidence is bogus.”
“So I thought. I’ve managed to track the owner through insurance. It’s a very nice piece, and part of a collection. Owned by Gina M. Bellona. Bellona is the ancient Roman goddess of war. On screen.”
“There she is,” Eve murmured.
Attractive, yes. Strong bones, smoothly covered by olive skin, a sweep of dark hair liberally, artistically streaked with silver. It listed her as the widow of a Carlo Corelli.
“Find out what happened to Carlo Corelli,” she ordered Peabody when her partner came back in. “And do it on the move. We’ve got a fucking New York address. Upper East Side—good call there, Callendar. Teasdale, I’d like you to stay back, monitor any transmissions Callaway requests to make. And use whatever magic you have to locate any private transportation she may have, and have gearing up. If she’s trying to poof, let’s block her.”
“I’ll make sure of it. And have a biohazard team in place at her condo.”
“Set it up, but hold them back until we get there. You can freeze her accounts faster than we can. Do that.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’m ordering a SWAT team,” Whitney said. “I want that building secure.”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to pull in Baxter and Trueheart. I think that’s enough to take down one old lady.”
“You’ll have one more. I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her.
“You earned it. Let’s move out.”
21
Eve worked as she went, her mind clicking through steps and strategies. “Peabody, keep digging on Gina Bellona. I want to know if she has any other homes, properties, and if so, we want the locals there to obtain warrants for search and seizure. I want any and all vehicles—ground, air, water. I want relatives, employment or businesses. I want the names of her frigging pets.”
She pulled out her own ’link, grateful that for once the elevator had a little breathing room. “Reo,” she began without preamble when the APA came on screen. “Are you and Mira secured?”
“Yes, we’re in the conference room. What—”
“Don’t talk, listen. I need a warrant, now, for the homes, businesses, and vehicles of Gina Bellona, aka Gina MacMillon. We’re on our way to her primary New York residence, and we’re going in with or without the warrant. Make it clean, Reo. She’s an imminent threat to the people and properties of New York. If she gets out of the city, she will be an imminent threat globally.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Save time, use the conference room ’link. Put Mira on.”
“Eve,” Mira began when they switched ’links.
“Is Mr. Mira at home?”
“He’s teaching an evening class at Columbia. He—”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I need you to go down to Callaway. I need you to keep him busy, talking, distracted. Say nothing about the grandmother. You know what to do, what to say. Just keep him occupied. I don’t want him contacting or trying to contact MacMillon before, during, or after the bust.”
“I understand.” Mira’s voice remained calm, but fear lived in her eyes. “Do you think she would try to hurt my family?”
“She hasn’t had time to do anything about it, but I’ll make sure they’re all protected. I promise you. She needs time and space to plan, to research. We’re not going to give it to her. But we won’t take chances. Get to Callaway.”
She clicked off, started to use her ’link again to order protection details. Roarke laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s done.” He moved off the elevator with her into the garage. “Private security, Mira’s family, Peabody and McNab’s apartment, Reo’s, and so on.”
“It should be cops.” Then she took a breath. “Thanks.”
“One less thing for you and the department to worry about.”
“Okay.” And she set it aside. “Get me the layout of the condo—floor plan, exits, security. I’ll drive, we’re going hot until we’re close, then we’ll turn off the sirens.”
“Hot’s my favorite thing.”
Peabody had a chance for one quick gulp before Eve tore out of the garage.
“Gina Bellona,” she began. “In addition to her condo here, she has a home in London, a flat in Paris, and a villa in Sardinia. Her husband, deceased, was knighted for his contribution to science and humanitarian works.”
“Science,” Eve repeated while she punched vertical and zipped over a knot of traffic.
“Carlo Corelli—Brit mother, Italian father, dual citizenship, a scientist, primary work molecular chemistry. His father was one of the founders of Biotech Industries.”
“One of the leaders in the field,” Roarke told her while he worked. “Innovations and development of synthetic organs, cancer vaccines, fertility, auto-immune research. They’ve built health centers in areas where medicine and health care was a luxury or simply nonexistent.”
“Pharmacology—lots of drug research.”
“No question.”
“Perfect for her. How’d he buy it, Peabody—Corelli?”
“Slipped in the shower seven months ago.”
“About the time Teasdale says Menzini died. I bet Corelli had help in the shower.”
“Death ruled accidental, but it looks like his first wife and his children made some noise about the widow. I can probably find some dish on it in the scandal sheets.”
“Marries him, gets rich, gets access to all the drugs she wants—and some expertise. Menzini dies, and she’s done with Corelli. Wants this tribute, or revenge, or whatever the hell. She takes Corelli out, inherits, moves to New York.”
“Where she lives in a spacious, two-level condo,” Roarke put in. “Private elevator into a foyer. Secondary entrance/exit on south corner. Additional on second level, central. Video security, all entrances. There’s also an interior elevator. Terraces off first and second levels, roof terrace on second level. She’s on Fifty-two and Three, southeast corner.”
“What else is up there?”
“Three other units—one at each corner.” He continued to work quickly, coolly, while Eve drove like a lunatic. “A central elevator, a maintenance/housekeeping area with service elevators. Three stairways—north and south and in the maintenance area.”
“Got it. Peabody, send Reo the info on MacMillon’s properties.”
“She’s also got a limo and town car here in New York, as well as a private shuttle.” A small “Eek!” escaped Peabody as the car threaded through snarled traffic. “An all-terrain in Sardinia—and a yacht—town cars in London and Paris. Biotech’s got a branch here, a complex on Long Island, and a facility on Park. Oh, another in Jersey City.”
“Get her all of it. Get warrants. Have her reach out to the European locals. She can add HSO’s and Tibble’s weight to get it moving. I want all her vehicles located and imp
ounded.”
“Oh shit. Okay,” Peabody muttered prayers as they leapfrogged over a trio of Rapid Cabs. “McNab’s already located the shuttle, he’s keeping me up. We’re on that.”
“Box her in,” Eve stated, cutting the sirens, gliding the rest of the way.
“I think I just lost five pounds in fear sweat.” Peabody mopped at her face. “Now I want a cannoli. I don’t know why.”
With a laugh, Roarke shifted to grin at her. “I’ll buy you a dozen, precious.”
“Cannolis, for God’s sake.” Eve pulled into the loading zone in front of the building. The doorman, spiffy in red and gold, mistook the DLE for a piece of crap and hotfooted over.
“You can’t—”
“I can.” Eve pulled out her badge as she pushed open the car door.
“What’s this—”
“I ask; you answer. Gina Bellona. Is she in her condo?”
“Ms. Bellona? She hasn’t come out or ordered her car. What’s—”
“How long have you been on the door today?”
“Going onto five hours. I’d’ve seen her if she’d come out. I opened the door for her myself about three hours ago when she came back from shopping.”
“Okay. The other tenants on her levels. Are they in?”
“The Cartwrights are in Africa, doing a safari thing. Mr. Bennett hasn’t come in yet, and Mrs. Bennett and the boy went out about an hour ago. Mr. Jasper just went up. His wife and kids are up there.”
“Which unit?”
“Fifty-two-oh-four.” His eyes widened as three black-and-whites and two SWAT vehicles roared up. “What’s the deal? Jesus.”
“Peabody, if you’ve finished dreaming of cannolis, have Curtis here take you to the building manager, get this started.” She moved toward the SWAT commander. “Lowenbaum.”
“Dallas. Cold night.”
“It’s about to heat up.” She’d worked with him before, knew him to be steady and smart. Like his men, he wore black body armor, a helmet, and carried a long-range blaster. His eyes, a deceptively mild gray, scanned the building. “Have you analyzed the floor plans?”