by J. D. Robb
“It’s important to me to have a connection with what you do. Even if it’s only to listen, though I enjoy doing more than that.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m annoyed with myself for scattering your focus on this case because I didn’t do what I’d have demanded you do. I didn’t dump on you. If I had, we’d have pulled this all together sooner. Next time I’m troubled like this, be sure I’ll drag you into my worries straight off.”
Her lips twitched. “Sounds good. And if you don’t drag me quick enough, I’ll just smack you around until you spill.”
“Fair enough.”
“Now, let’s take a look at the names.”
He put them on a wall screen. “There’s nothing on any male in your age group. Not with a serious neurological problem.”
“Maybe it’s not the brain. Maybe it’s some other part gone dinky.”
“Well, I took that into consideration. There’s still no patient out of that particular health center with a life-threatening condition in that profile. I can expand it, by spreading more grease as it were, or simply saving time and money by sliding into records in other facilities.”
She considered it. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d let him slither around the line. But even with his skills, it was bound to take hours, potentially days, to hack through the numerous medical facilities in the city.
And it was just a hunch. Just a gut thing.
“Let’s play it by the book, more or less, for now.”
She scanned the names. People were dying, she noted, but there was no killer to hunt and cage. The killer was their own body, or fate, or just bad luck. Tumors sprouting up in inconvenient places, spreading, propagating, brewing inside the brain.
Science could locate them, and if it was early enough, if the patient had the right insurance or bank account, treatment could and did eradicate. But it was often too late, she mused, reading the list of names. She’d had no idea death was so prevalent from inside the body.
Most were elderly, it was true. Most had already celebrated their centennial. But there was a scattering of younger victims.
Darryn Joy, age seventy-three. Marilynn Kobowski, age forty-one. Lawrence T. Kettering, age eighty-eight.
Already dead or dying, she noted.
Corrine A. Stevenson, age fifty. Mitchell B.—
“Wait. Wait. Stevenson, Corrine A., full data.”
“Get a bump, did you?”
“Yeah, oh yeah.” She yanked out her PPC, pulled up the resident information on one of the buildings she’d run, the one a block west of the parking port.
“Stevenson just happened to live within walking distance of the parking port. Twelfth floor—giving a nice view of the area, an excellent view if you happen to have long-range lenses.”
“As a photographer would.”
“Yeah.” She looked back on-screen. “She died, despite what—two years of treatments—last September. No spouse on record. One child, surviving son, Gerald Stevenson. Born September 13, 2028. There’s a goddamn bump. Run the son.”
“Already on it,” Roarke said from behind her as Peabody burst through the adjoining door.
“Dallas, I got something. Javert, Luis Javert.” Her face was flushed with the discovery. “Ordered frames—the same style as Hastings’s standing order, from the Helsinki outlet. One size—16 by 20. He’s had 50 of them shipped to a mail drop in New York, West Broadway Shipping, in Tribeca.”
“How’d he pay?”
“Direct transfer. I need authorization to request a warrant for the financials.”
“You’ve got it. Use my badge number. Roarke.”
“A bit of time here, Lieutenant. There’s more than one Gerald Stevenson in the flaming city. But none with that DOB,” he said after a moment. “None at that residence. He’s not using that name. If he’s changed it legally, I’ll have to . . . dig around a bit.”
“Then get a shovel. Her name’s still listed as resident on the apartment. Somebody’s living there and wouldn’t it be Corrine Stevenson’s son Gerald? Peabody! With me.”
“Yes, sir. One minute.”
“Tag Feeney,” she called to Roarke as she strode out. “Give him what you’ve got. The more e-drones on this, the better.”
“E-men, Lieutenant,” he corrected. “E-men.” Then he wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to play a complex sonata.
It was good to be back.
She had to wait for Peabody to get back in uniform, so used the time to contact the commander and brief him.
“Do you want uniform backup?”
“No, sir. If he spots uniforms, it might spook him. I’d like Baxter and Trueheart, soft clothes, just to watch the egresses of the building. The suspect has not, to date, demonstrated any violent tendencies, but he may do if and when cornered. The apartment where I believe he resides is twelve floors up. Only way out is through the front door, or out the window and onto the emergency evac route. Peabody and I will have the door. Baxter and Trueheart can man the evac route.”
“You’ve got a nice pile of circumstantial, Lieutenant, but having a mother die of brain cancer isn’t going to be enough for a warrant.”
“Then I’ll have to be persuasive, sir, and convince him to let me inside.” She looked over her shoulder as Peabody came down the steps, in her freshly laundered, meticulously pressed summer blues. “We’re ready to go here, Commander.”
“I’ll have your backup in place within fifteen minutes. Move softly, Dallas.”
“Yes, sir.” She ended the communication.
“Nothing like a clean uniform.” Peabody sniffed her own sleeve. “He uses something with just the faintest hint of lemon. Nice. I’ll have to ask him what it is when he gets back from his vacation.”
“I’m sure the two of you will have a fine time exchanging household hints, but maybe we could focus on our pesky little op for the moment.”
Peabody shifted her expression to somber. “Yes, sir.” But she admired the knife-edge crease of her uniform trousers as Eve filled her in.
The building had twelve floors, and she considered the advantage of placing one of her backup on the roof. Waste of manpower, she decided. If her target bolted out the window, she could bolt right after him, and head up if that was his tact. He was more likely to shoot for the street, if he bolted at all.
Would he have an escape route mapped out? He was a planner, so it was probable he’d considered the possibility of being cornered in his nest.
She called Roarke. “I need a blueprint display of the target building. I want to see the setup on the twelfth floor, the layout of the target apartment. How fast can you transmit—” She broke off when the diagram filled her screen. “Pretty damn fast,” she replied.
“I’d decided to take a look at it myself. As you can see, it’s a nice layout. Roomy living space, efficiently sized kitchen, two bedrooms.”
“I got eyes. Later.”
One bedroom for mom, one for son? She wondered. Did he work in the extra bedroom now? If he worked out of the apartment, why have the frames delivered so far downtown?
If he worked there, how the hell did he get four tranq’d people through building security and up to the twelfth floor?
She was hoping to be able to ask him directly, very soon.
She met up with Baxter and Trueheart in the lobby. It was a small space, very quiet, very clean. Security cams swept the entrance and the two silver-doored elevators. It didn’t boast a doorman, live or droid, but it had required a scan of her badge to gain entrance.
“The target is apartment 1208, east-facing unit, third in from the south corner. Windows are, from south to north, numbers six, seven, and eight.”
She glanced at Trueheart—couldn’t help it. It was so rare to see him in civilian clothes. If possible he looked even younger in the sports shirt and jeans than he did in uniform.
“Where’s your weapon, Trueheart?”
He patted the base of his spine, under the long tail of h
is baby blue shirt. “I thought I’d attract more attention wearing a jacket in this heat. I know it looks a little sloppy, Lieutenant, but it’s more usual street wear.”
“That wasn’t a fashion question.”
“She’d be the last to ask one of those,” Baxter put in, and looked cool and casual in summer khakis and a faded green tee. “Not that she doesn’t always look hot. Especially since somebody with taste’s buying her threads these days.”
“I’ll remind you to bite me later. Right now, we’re going to try to pinpoint and apprehend a serial killer, so maybe we can talk about how cute we all look some other time.
“Communicators on,” she continued. “Weapons low stun. You two take the sidewalk across the street. Spread out. You see anybody at any of the target windows, I want a heads-up. Anybody fitting profile enters or exits the building while I’m inside, I want to know about it. Let’s pin him down.”
She walked to the elevators, scooping up a fake potted fern on the way.
“I didn’t know you liked houseplants, Dallas.”
“Home decorating is always on my mind. He sees my face through his security peep, he’s not going to open the door. He knows me.”
“Oh, camouflage.”
“Stay out of the line of sight,” she ordered Peabody. “We need him to open the door, establish he’s in there, get a look at his face. Record on.”
“So if he panics, slams the door again, we’ve got probable cause and a face.”
“And he’s bolted in until we get a warrant. Nobody dies tonight,” she stated as she stepped out on twelve.
She hitched the fern up, looking through the fronds as she approached the apartment. It had a security peep, full screen, a palm plate, and voice box.
Taking no chances, are you, she thought. You’re a careful bastard. Don’t want some casual burglar lifting your locks and finding your goodies.
She rang the bell, waited.
The red locked light stayed steady.
She rang again. “Delivery for 1208,” she called out.
Hearing the door behind her open, Eve shifted her weight and put her free hand on her weapon.
A young woman stepped out of 1207, eyes widening when she spotted Peabody’s uniform. “Is there some sort of trouble? Is anything wrong? Is Gerry okay?”
“Gerald Stevenson.” Eve set the fern down. “Does he live here?”
“Sure. Haven’t seen him for, I don’t know, a few days anyway. But that’s his place. Who are you?”
“Dallas. NYPSD.” She took out her badge. “So, Gerry’s not home.”
“No. Like I said, I haven’t seen him for a while. He’s probably out on assignment.”
“Assignment.”
“Yeah, you know, taking pictures.”
Eve felt the quick leap in her blood. “He’s a photographer.”
“Image artist. That’s what he calls it. He’s good, too. He took some of my husband and me last year. Of course, he hasn’t been doing much work since his mother died. What’s this about, anyway?”
“When his mother died,” Eve prompted. “What happened?”
“What you’d expect. He fell apart. They were really close. He took care of her through the whole thing, and believe me, some of it had to be horrible. She just died by inches. Mark and I did what we could, but really, what can you do? Has something happened to Gerry? God, has he been in an accident?”
“Not that I know of. Mrs?”
“Ms. Ms. Fryburn. Jessie. Listen, I’ve knocked a couple times in the last week, and I’ve tried to reach him on his ’link, just to check. He seemed better lately, a lot better, and said he was working pretty steady. If something’s happened, I’d like to help. He’s a nice guy, and Ms. Stevenson, well, she was a jewel. One in a million.”
“You might be able to help. Can we come inside, talk to you?”
“I . . .” She glanced at the time on a slim silver wrist unit. “Yes. Sure. I just have to call in, reschedule a few meetings.” She looked at Eve again, at Peabody, then at the fern Eve sat beside the door. And began to put some of it together. “Is Gerry in trouble?”
“Yes. Yes, he’s in trouble.”
It took more time than Eve wanted to spend, but she wanted Jessie Fryburn’s cooperation. It took precious time to batter back the woman’s instinctive defense of Gerald Stevenson. Her refusal to believe he could be involved in anything illegal, much less murderous.
She dug in on it until Eve wanted to take her loyal spine and twist it into a pretzel.
“If, as you continue to insist, Gerry’s innocent, it’ll only be to his benefit for me to find him and clear all this up.” I’m just about through screwing around with you in any polite manner, Eve thought.
“Oh, like an innocent man isn’t ever arrested and dragged through the mud until his life is ruined.” Jessie was so focused on the heat of her own outrage, she missed the warning flare of Eve’s. “You’re just doing your job, I understand that perfectly well, but it is a job. And people make mistakes on the job every day.”
“You’re right. And it would probably be a mistake for me to slap restraints on you right now, haul your ass down to Central, and into lockup for impeding an investigation, for obstruction of justice, for just being a complete pain in the ass. But you know what?” She rose and tugged her restraints off her belt. “People make mistakes on the job every day.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Peabody?”
“She would dare, Ms. Fryburn. She would absolutely dare. And lockup isn’t very pleasant.”
A flush from insult and temper stained Jessie’s cheeks. “I’m calling my lawyer. I’m not saying another word until I do. If she advises me to talk to you, fine. Otherwise.” She lifted her chin so that Eve had to resist taking the invitation to rap it with her fist. “You can do your worst.”
“She really doesn’t understand just how good your worst is. Or how bad—depending on your point of view.” Peabody said this out of the corner of her mouth as Jessie stalked to a ’link.
“The only reason she’s still standing is because I respect loyalty, and she’s clueless. He’s a nice guy, he took care of his dying mother. He didn’t cause any trouble. A nice, neat, quiet neighbor. Fits profile.”
“Where do we go from here?”
“Haul her in, if we need to. Plow through the lawyer and talk her into working with an Ident artist. I want a goddamn image. And I want a warrant to get through that door across the hall.”
She yanked out her communicator. “Commander,” she began when he came on. “I need some pressure.”
Time leaked out of the day, and the gloom edged into an early twilight. More storms circled, threatened, shot out heat lightning and threatening blasts of thunder.
She danced with the lawyer, until she thought her ears might bleed, but in the end a reluctant Jessie agreed to a session with an Ident artist. As long as it took place in her own apartment.
“You think I’m being stubborn.” Jessie sat, arms folded and frowned at Eve. “But I consider Gerry a friend. I watched what he went through with his mom, and it was heart-breaking. I’ve never seen anyone die before. She fought so hard, and he was right there, in the trenches with her. And when she was too weak to fight, he kept right on.”
Obviously moved, she bit her lip to keep her voice steady. “He cleaned up after. He bathed her, fed her, sat with her. He wouldn’t let anyone else do the dirty work. I’ve never seen that kind of devotion. I don’t know if I have it in me.”
“That kind of experience might push a person over the edge.”
“Maybe. Maybe, but . . . God, I hate this. He’s already suffered so much. Whenever I saw him after, after it was over, he looked like a ghost. Just getting through, just getting by. He lost weight, looked nearly as sick as she had. Then he seemed to come back. The last few months, he seemed to find his feet again. You want me to think he’s crazy, some sort of insane monster. But I’ve lived across the hall from him for two and a half
years, and he’s not.”
“There are three young people dead who looked at him, who I believe looked right into his face. They didn’t think he was a monster either.”
“He’s just out on assignment, you’ll see. He’s just out working, trying to get his life back on track. You’ll see.”
“One of us will,” Eve replied.
Chapter 21
Eve peered at the door of apartment 1208 as if some of the heat of her impatience would gather and bore holes through the panel so she could see.
One simple authorization was keeping her out, one simple go-in-and-look was all she needed.
Circumstantial, her ass. She knew.
She believed in the working of law. The rules, the checkpoints. Cops had no right to break into a private home like stormtroopers. On hunches, on whims, on personal vendettas.
Probable cause. She needed it. And she had it. Why in the hell didn’t a judge have enough working brain cells to see she had it?
Patience, she ordered herself. The warrant would come through, and she’d go through the door.
But waiting made her imagine how it might have run if she’d come here with Roarke. Would she have used her master to gain entrance? Hell, he’d have finessed the locks before she’d pulled it out of her pocket.
And then, of course, whatever she’d found inside would be inadmissible. Going in the easy way would have presented Stevenson with a walk.
Checks and balances, she reminded herself. The rules of law.
God, what was taking so long?
Peabody stepped out of Jessie’s apartment where Eve had stationed her. “She’s still stalling,” Peabody reported under her breath. “Yancy’s good, and he’s building up a rapport with her, gaining trust, but it’s not going to be quick.”
Straining against impotence, Eve glanced in the apartment. Yancy, the Ident artist, kept up a cheerful banter as he worked with his kit. He was young, but he was good, he was solid.
She had to leave him alone, Eve thought. Had to stay out of the mix. The witness already had a resentment against her, and if she went in, pressed, it would only gum up the works.
“She keeps changing her mind on the details,” Peabody went on. “Jawline, nose, even skin tone. But he’s bringing her around.”