by J. D. Robb
He hadn’t died in that alley, as poor young Coyle had died in his bed. He’d lived, because Summerset had found him, had cared enough to take a broken boy in—a nasty little son of a bitch, as well.
He’d taken him in, and tended him. And given him a home.
In a human world, even one of murder and blood, didn’t an innocent girl like Nixie Swisher deserve that much? Deserve more than he’d been given?
He’d help her get it, for her sake—and for his own. Before his father’s voice got too loud in his head.
He didn’t get the whiskey. Instead he pushed aside the memories, the questions, and as much of the sickness of heart as he could manage, and waited for his wife to step into the room.
The room was full of light, the wide windows uncovered. She knew no surveillance device could penetrate the privacy screens on them. Unless he’d built surveillance devices himself, she thought. Then he’d have built better screens.
At the wide black U of the control console, he sat, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, the silk of his hair tied back with a cord.
Work mode.
The console always looked a bit futuristic to her, just as the man who piloted it could remind her of a pirate at the helm of a spaceship.
Lights flashed on that glossy black like jewels as he worked the controls, manually, and by voice.
On the wall screens were different areas of his domain, and the various computer responses gave brisk reports.
“Lieutenant.”
“I’m sorry about this. I’m sorry about what I may be bringing here.”
He stopped what he was doing. “Pause operations. You’re upset,” he said, as coolly as he’d spoken to the equipment. “So I’ll forgive that insulting remark.”
“Roarke—”
“Eve.” He rose, crossed the wide black floor toward her. “Are we a unit, you and I?”
“Doesn’t seem to be any way around it.”
“Or through it.” He took her hands and the contact steadied him. “Or under it, over it. Don’t apologize to me for doing what you felt was right for that child.”
“I could’ve taken her to a safe house. I second-guessed myself on that half a dozen times today. If I had, Newman would know some of the locations. If they get them out of her . . . hell, not if, when. There are cops scrambling right now to move people out of what should be secure locations. Just in case.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “A minute.” He moved back, fast, to the console, switched on a ’link. “Dochas,” he snapped into it. “Code Red, immediate and until further notice.”
“Oh Christ.”
“It’s handled,” he said, turning from the ’link. “I have built-in procedures for just this sort of thing. It’s unlikely they’ll believe you would take her there—with so many others. Less likely yet they can find it. But it’s handled. Just as this is.”
He stepped back to her, nodded toward the screens. “I have every inch of the wall and gate secured.”
“A teenager once got over using a homemade jammer.”
The fact that he looked momentarily perturbed by the memory lightened her load. “Jamie is no ordinary teenager. Nor was he able to get through the secondaries. And I’ve upgraded since then. Believe me, Eve, they won’t get in.”
“I do believe you.” Still she paced to the window, to look out, to see the walls for herself. “Newman doesn’t know I brought the kid here. Went over her on it, and didn’t tell her, mostly because she irritated me. Just a little slap. My balls are bigger than your balls kind of thing. Petty.”
“Being petty—and I do love that about you—has added another layer of protection over Nixie.”
“Dumb luck. But why argue with dumb luck? I’ve had her supervisor picked up, taken into protective. Had all the paperwork buried.” She huffed out a breath. “I’ve got Mira locked down, too, just in case her involvement leaks. She’s not happy with me.”
“Her safety’s more important than her happiness.”
“Put surveillance on Peabody’s place. She’s mine, so they may go for her.”
“She and McNab can stay here.”
“One big, happy family. No. We deviate from routine too much, they’ll know we’re waiting for them to make a move.”
“Eve. You and I both know they’re unlikely to move on this house tonight, even if they believe the child is here. They’re careful, they’re organized. They’re controlled. They would have to obtain or simulate my system. Believe me when I say that alone would take them weeks. Then they’d have to find the chinks—of which there are none—they’d have to practice. If you haven’t run a probability on that, as I have, I’d be very surprised.”
“A little over twelve percent.” She turned to him, framed now by the wide, wide glass. “But we don’t take chances.”
“And the probability they’ll try for you?” He lifted his eyebrows when she said nothing, when he saw the faint irritation on her face. “Ninety-six.”
“You’re right behind me, pal, at ninety-one.”
“Bloody annoying to have you slip by me by five percent. You were working up to asking me—and I use that verb tongue in cheek—to lock myself down in here. Are we going to argue about that so that I have to throw that five percent probability in your face?”
Thoughtfully, she rocked back and forth on her heels. “I had a pretty good argument worked out.”
“Why don’t you save it for another time?”
“I can do that.”
The in-house ’link signalled. “This is Roarke,” he said from where he stood, his attention still on Eve.
“As per her instructions, I’m informing the lieutenant that Captain Feeney and Detective McNab are requesting entrance at the gate.”
“You verify ID visually and by voice print?” she asked Summerset.
“Of course.”
“They’re cleared to come through. I want to go talk to my team,” she said to Roarke. “Okay if that includes you?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Give me a couple of minutes to finish in here. I’ll be along.”
She walked to the elevator, stood looking at the door when it opened at her command. “Roarke? The thing is about probabilities, they don’t always factor in every element. They can’t fully and successfully analyze every human emotion. The computer doesn’t factor in that if someone got to you, it would take me down. If they used you, bargained your life, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to get you back. So you factor that in, and I figure you’ve cut ahead of me on the probability scale.”
She entered the elevator quickly, closed the door before he could respond.
Eve let them settle in first, go through the chatter, the greed for food. She even ignored the cooing flirtation between her partner and EDD ace Ian McNab, the recent cohabs.
The fact was, Peabody’s color had been off since they’d hauled up the steps to interview Minnie. The cooing, however unseemly, had her pinked up again.
And while they settled, Eve organized the conference in her head.
“Okay, boys and girls.” She remained standing. She handled such meetings better on her feet. “If everyone’s had their afternoon snack, maybe we can get started.”
“Uptown grub.” McNab scooped up the last of leftover apple pie.
His skinny frame was festooned—Eve figured that was the word for it—in a neon orange skin-tank with sizzling blue pants that had some sort of silver clamps running up the outside of each leg. The overshirt was a headache of dots, outdone only by the glowing checks covering his airboots.
His shining blond hair was pulled back from his thin, pretty face. The better to show off the trio of orange and blue coils adorning each ear.
“I’m glad you approve, Detective. Now maybe you can give your report. Unless, of course, you’d like seconds.”
Sarcasm, even delivered in mild tones, could hit like a hammer. He swallowed the last of the pie quickly. “No, sir. Our team has reviewed and completed sea
rch-and-scans on all ’links, all d and c’s owned or used by any and all of the vics, and the survivor. We found no transmissions on the ’links other than ordinary communications from and to the Swishers and their domestic. While there were numerous transmissions over the last thirty days, they check. Friends, clients, each other, personal and business transmissions. A list of all, with transcription, is now on disc for your file.”
“Thirty days?”
“The Swishers cleared their ’links every thirty. That’s common. We’re digging in, and will retrieve the deleted transmissions prior to the thirty. As to the data centers, the files are pretty much what you’d expect.”
“What would I expect, Detective?”
He was warming up, she could see, losing the stiffness her reprimand had caused. He slouched more comfortably in his chair and began to gesture as he spoke. “You know, Dallas, games, to-do lists, meal planning, appointments, birthday reminders. Family stuff, school stuff, upcoming vacation data. Got case files from each of the adult’s business units, comments, reports, financials. Nothing pops out. If they had trouble, or suspected they might have trouble, they didn’t make a record of it. They didn’t discuss it with anyone via ’link.”
He glanced toward the murder board, the death photos, and his eyes—a misty green—hardened. “I’ve been spending a lot of time with that family the last few days. My opinion—from their electronic records and transmissions—they didn’t have a clue.”
She nodded, shifted to Feeney. Beside the fashionable McNab, he looked blessedly dull. “Security.”
“Bypassed and shut down. Remote and at site. Diagnostic scan couldn’t locate the source, but when we took the system apart we found microscopic particles—fiber-optic traces. They hooked in—portable code-breaker, most likely. Had to be prime equipment to read the code, to get through the failsafes without tripping any alarm. Equipment and operator had to be prime to do it in the time frame we’re working with. We’re looking for at least one suspect who has a superior knowledge of and skill with electronics, and the equipment to match.”
Since Feeney looked to him for confirmation, Roarke nodded. “Their equipment would have had to have been small, possibly palm-sized. From your description, Lieutenant, of the men seen walking away from the location of the murders.”
“They each had a bag, but no,” she confirmed, “nothing large.”
“Your ordinary, even better-than-average, B and E man isn’t likely to have access to a palm-sized breaker in the range capable of reading that system, certainly not at that speed. As the system showed no signs of tampering, the men you’re looking for probably didn’t have the burglary skills to go manual.”
“Meaning they had to rely on equipment, not . . .” She lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers. And made him smile.
“Exactly. The equipment would also have to be tailored specifically for that system. The time frame means it was tailored prior to their arrival.”
“Confirming they knew the system, knew what they’d find, and had studied it either by duplicating or purchasing the same system, or spending time on site.”
“The only way they could have studied it on site thoroughly enough to have pulled this off means they had considerable time—hours—both inside the house and outside, with no one questioning them.”
Eve pursed her lips at Roarke. “Hours?”
“It’s a solid system, Dallas,” Feeney commented. “They didn’t get through by eyeballing it.”
“Then it’s unlikely they ran sims with the Swisher’s actual system. Peabody, you’ve done a search of purchases of that security system?”
“Yes, sir, and it’s a whale of a list. I’ve started on it, dividing it into city, out of city, out of state, out of country, and off planet. I’ve then eliminated purchases made before the Swishers obtained their system. I’ve started runs on purchases in city, and have eliminated approximately another six percent.”
“By what process?”
“Well, by separating out single female purchasers and married with family, then checking those to determine if they had any maintenance and repair on the system since the purchase date. Profile indicates the killers are not family men, and the probability run gave me in the nineties that this process was the most efficient. At this time.”
“Have you run those systems purchased that were not installed by the company?”
Peabody opened her mouth, then closed it long enough to clear her throat. “No, sir. I’ll do so.”
“Split the list between all members of this team. Probability or not, do not—at this time—eliminate families or single females. Maybe one of them has a girlfriend, or a female accomplice. Maybe he’s a licensed installer. Maybe he’s just the handy neighbor who says, ‘Hey, I’ll take care of that for you and save you some dough.’ These are home security systems, but there’s no law saying a business couldn’t purchase one. Let’s get on this.”
She leaned back against her desk, remembered the coffee she’d poured before she’d begun. She picked it up, drank it lukewarm. “Baxter. Client lists.”
“Both the Swishers had a good thing going. Successful in their professions. Family law firm was busy, and Swisher had a good win rate. His caseload weighs heavy on protection of children’s rights, custody suits, divorce, while his partner takes more of the straight abuse, palimony, cohab dissolutions, and competency stuff. But they both have a mix, and both have a good percentage of pro bono work.”
He cocked his ankle onto his knee, brushed the line of the pants of his well-cut suit smooth. “She was no slouch either. Lots of referrals. Liked to do families or couples, but didn’t turn away the individual. She would also work on a sliding scale, ratio of fee to income. Not just fatties,” he added. “Dug into various eating disorders, health conditions. Consulted with her client’s health care provider, and made house calls.”
“House calls?”
“She’d visit the client’s home and workplace. Do a study on their lifestyle, recommend changes, not just in eating habits, but in exercise, entertainment, stress levels, the works. That kind of treatment didn’t come cheap, but like I said, she had a lot of referrals. Satisfied customers. You got your dissatisfied, too, both sides.”
“Do a cross-check. See how many times their clients crossed. Do another, see which cases Swisher’s firm worked on where Meredith Newman was listed as CPS rep. It could be interesting data. Trueheart.”
“Sir.” Long and lanky, and almost tenderly young in his uniform, he came to attention.
“You’ve been spending time with the witness.”
“She’s a nice kid, Lieutenant.”
“Any further data from her?”
“Sir, she doesn’t talk much about it. She’s broken down a couple of times. Not hysterical, just sits down and cries. I’m trying to keep her busy. She seems comfortable with me, and with Summerset, though she asks about you.”
“Asks what?”
“When you’re coming back, what you’re doing. When you’re going to take her to see her parents and her brother. If you’ve caught the bad guys yet. I don’t know much about, well, I guess you’d say child psychology, but I’d say she’s holding on to herself until you do. Catch them. To date, she hasn’t said anything that would add to her previous statements.”
“All right. Moving on to Meredith Newman. CPS reps in cases like this are kept confidential. However, it’s not that complicated to access the data. Anyone with serious interest and reasonable hacking capabilities could slither into the CPS files like a snake through grass. Feeney, I’ll want your department to check the d and c’s for any evidence of hacking. Maybe we’ll get a bounce. The subject was abducted off the sidewalk on Avenue B, daylight grab, with witnesses. The speed and success of the grab indicates the suspects have some experience in daylight abductions. It also indicates there were three. It’s unlikely these two would trust their vehicle to auto under the circumstances. We must assume Newman’s connection to Nixie Swisher was the mo
tive for the grab. We must assume that the perpetrators had experience in making grabs of this nature, in electronics and security, in stealth assassinations.”
“Military or para,” Feeney said. “Espionage or special forces. Average citizens, they’re not.”
“If they were military, it’s likely we’ll find they washed out—or were promoted to fucking general because of their particular skills. One way or the other, these men have been in the field, and they’ve gotten wet. They’re not rusty, either, so they’ve kept in the game.”
“Paramilitary seems more probable,” Roarke commented. “There’s testing in standard military that would question the personality type or predilection of killing for personal gain or satisfaction—particularly children.”
“Mercenaries kill for personal gain, and are often attached to military ops.”
“True enough.” But he shook his head at Eve. “That’s most usually monetary. Where is the monetary gain here?”
“We might not have found it yet, but let’s say I agree. And I agree that it takes a certain kind of personality to slit a child’s throat while she sleeps. That’s terrorist tactics, and fringe at that. I think that’s where this arrow’s going to point.”
“More cross-checking then,” Baxter put in. “Known terrorists or members of fringe organizations.”
“Look for teams. Two or more who are known to work together, or known to have trained together. Then we need to put one of them, at least, in New York during the last few years.”
“Could be hirelings,” Baxter pointed out. “Brought into New York to do the job.”
“Low odds. Hirelings would’ve been smoke an hour after the Swisher hit. But they’re still in New York, still here to grab up Newman. One or both of them targeted the Swishers, and for a reason. This means, at some point, one or more of them crossed paths with one or more of the Swishers. Security and wet work, and they’re in shape. No desk jockeys or data crunchers. These are field operatives. Males, between thirty and sixty to start. White or light-skinned males. Either they or their organization has deep pockets. Look for the money.”