by J. D. Robb
“Peabody, see if there’s a more comfortable, more private place we can talk to—Your name, sir?”
“Loren Able. I won’t leave Willimina.”
“No, sir, but I need to speak with you, and I need to give you some facts.”
Peabody managed to secure a small break room—a single table, four chairs, a pair of vending machines, and an AutoChef that looked older than Noah. And somehow, being Peabody, she’d come up with a small pillow.
“Mr. Able, the nurse told me you should have your foot elevated.” She set the pillow on the fourth chair, angled it.
He sighed. “That’s kind of you.” He lifted his leg with his hands, set his foot carefully on the pillow.
“Can I get you some water, some tea?”
“I would give you my first born, if I had one, for some decent black coffee.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
When Peabody went out, Able shut his eyes a moment. “I read the Icove book. Haven’t seen the vid, but I read the book. It appears Nadine Furst captured the detective very well. You’re fortunate in your partner, Lieutenant.”
“I am.”
“Facts, you said. I’d like to hear the facts.”
“Not all of this will filter through the media,” Eve said. “Not at all while the investigation’s active.”
“I’ve been a lawyer for thirty-nine years, Lieutenant. I know how to keep my mouth shut.”
“I’m going to tell you about Paul Rogan.”
As she spoke, he closed his eyes again so she couldn’t read them. But the burn on his face became an angrier red as she described the home invasion.
When she finished, he said nothing for a long moment. Then he opened his eyes. “You’re saying, essentially, he was told to make a choice. His life and those of us in that room this morning, or the lives of his wife and child?”
“All evidence points to that, yes.”
He drew in a deep breath. “I came out of that room with some broken bones, some bruises. A woman I’ve known since birth is fighting for her life. A woman who’s a daughter to me in all but blood. If I’d had even seconds of warning, I would have tried to shield her with my own body. I wouldn’t have hesitated. I may, eventually, be able to accept Paul Rogan made the only choice he could make as I may have done the same. If Willi dies, I’ll curse him with my last breath.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Not at all.” He looked over as Peabody came in with a to-go tray and three cups. “You’re resourceful, Detective, as that smells at least decent.”
“I don’t know it’ll hit much above that.”
“Thank you. I didn’t have any direct business with Rogan,” Able continued as he took the first sip. “I worked with Quantum’s in-house counsel. He’s in ICU along with Willi. I hope he makes it. I got to know Derrick Pearson well over the last few months. A very good man, shrewd and fair, from my standpoint. My priority was to help craft the best deal for Econo.”
“Did you?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“What happens to the deal now?”
“With Derrick gone, and Willi . . . The ground’s shaky. The paperwork, the legalities would have been cemented today, after the meeting, the marketing reveal, and so on. The deal was done in spirit last week.”
“But unsigned.”
“Yes. There may be some board members, on both sides, who balk now. But Derrick’s children will push for the deal, because that’s what he wanted. And it’s a good one for Quantum.”
“And Econo? I’m sorry, if Ms. Karson is unable to speak for Econo.”
“I would be majority stockholder. Her shares of Econo would be divided among me, her half brother, and her closest friend, one she’s had since childhood.”
“Where are the brother and the friend?”
“Javier—her mother’s son with husband three—lives in Barcelona, where he’s studying medicine. Both he and Willimina’s mother are arranging travel. They should be here by tomorrow, latest. Juliette is on her way here already. She lives in Santa Fe with her husband and daughter. She’s pregnant with her second child. I told her to wait, not to travel, but she’s coming.”
“If you’d died in the blast? Who gets your shares?”
“Interesting. Willi, but if she predeceased me, they’re to be divided between my brother and sister.”
“Could you give me the names and contact information for all the beneficiaries?” Peabody asked.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to contact my office—and I’ll clear that. I lost my ’link, memo book, and everything else in the blast. I had to beg an orderly to get me something to wear. Except for the shoes.” He frowned at his elevated foot. “They made it through.”
Once Peabody had helped Able back to the waiting area, Eve decided she’d done enough in the field, enough interviews, enough impressions.
She needed to get back to Central, needed to set up her murder board, her book. And she needed to think.
“Let’s grab a conference room, coordinate with Baxter and Trueheart. I need time to write this out, report to the commander.”
“Could we maybe get food—any food whatsoever—from the go place off the hospital lobby?”
“You want hospital food?”
“So hangs my desperation.”
“Fine.” Eve pulled out a handful of credits. “Get desperation food, meet me at the car.”
It would give her time to start reviewing her notes.
A lot of players, she thought, as she walked outside. Deals and the wheels inside them. Shares of this, shares of that.
Somebody, she concluded, had wanted more than their fair share.
4
Peabody hopped in the car, handed Eve a go-cup.
“Soup. Vegetable Beef.”
Eve took a sniff then a swallow before she started winding out of the underground lot. It smelled like pepper and tasted like spicy, liquified cardboard, heated to cautiously approach lukewarm. “Beef of what?”
“They didn’t say, and I thought it wiser not to ask.” Peabody took a gulp, coughed a little. “It’s bad, it’s bad. I should’ve gone for the mini berry pies.”
“They had mini berry pies and you went for liquid mystery meat?”
“And veg.” Peabody choked down another swallow. “I told myself to be an adult, to think of loose pants. Is it gamey? There’s a little bit of gamey aftertaste. Gak.”
“It could be rat. Liquefied, peppered rat.” Eve shoved her cup into Peabody’s hand.
“It’s a hospital! Hospitals don’t serve rat.”
As she wound, Eve swung toward a recycler, stopped. Pointed. “Dispose of the rat soup.”
“It’s not rat. I didn’t drink rat.” But Peabody fumbled the door open, juggling go-cups. She hotfooted it to the recycler, dumped the cups. She slid back into the car, downtrodden. “Can I get a diet fizzy from the AC?”
“What flavor washes away the taint of rat soup?”
“It wasn’t rat, but any.” She ordered up cherry, and a tube of Pepsi for Eve. “The lawyer came off on the level,” she began. “Still, if both he and Karson went down in the explosion, that’s the big bulk of shares in Econo. And with Pearson gone, that’s the majority of Quantum.”
“We’ll take a look at all beneficiaries. It’s a weird-ass way to inherit. Risky and overly complicated. What if Rogan loses his nerve, doesn’t hit the button? What if the main shareholders survive the blast? And Karson may.”
“Why explosives?” Peabody picked up. “Killing multiples rather than homing in on specifics—if inheritance is the motive?”
“Point,” Eve agreed. “More probable someone with a grievance against one or both of the companies. More probable someone who benefits from—ha ha—blowing up the deal. You toss both companies into chaos, postpone or kill the merger, while the new leadership comes in to deal with the fallout.”
“I don’t get what’s gained if the merger goes south, especially if it’s just po
stponed.”
“That’s what we’ll ask our expert consultant, civilian.”
“McNab and I are giving Roarke ten thousand to invest for us.”
“What?”
“I asked Roarke a while back, and we’re not there yet, but close. We’re going to do five each, and give it to Roarke.”
The idea made Eve’s stomach sink a little. “That’s a lot of scratch to gamble on detectives’ salaries.”
“We might want to buy a place one day. An apartment or even a townhouse. If you wanted to invest, who would you trust with it?”
“Roarke,” she admitted, “since I know pretty much squat about investing.”
“Exactly.”
“He bought a farm,” Eve muttered.
“He bought the farm? You’re mixing up your idioms again.”
“A farm. An actual farm, somewhere in Nebraska, because I made some comment that turned into a challenge in his head. So he bought this shithole farm in Bumfuck, in my name.”
“You’re going to live on a farm in Nebraska?”
“Jesus Christ, Peabody, did a glug of rat soup melt your brain? He’s going to do something with it, who knows what? Make it something or other and sell it or something. It’s a craphole of a house with weird craphole buildings on a bunch of scary, empty land in the middle of nowhere Nebraska.”
“And you own it.”
“Technically.” Which bugged and baffled her—which she knew stood as reason number one he’d done it in the first damn place. “What I’m saying is whatever he paid for this bullshit is a game to him. Even if he loses the challenge, he’ll be, you know, amused. If you give him your money, it won’t be a game to him. He’ll be careful with it.”
“I know it. The idea’s a little scary, but exciting, too. And it wasn’t rat soup. There’s maybe, possibly, a scant ten percent chance it was squirrel.”
Eve pulled into Central’s underground lot. “What’s the difference?”
“Squirrels are sort of cute and fuzzy. And they can have personality.”
After zipping into her slot, Eve shifted in her seat. “Look in a squirrel’s eyes next time you see one scampering along like a fuzzy rat. Right in the eyes. They’re lunatics.”
As she swung out of the car, her communicator signaled. She saw Whitney’s office on the readout. “Dallas.”
“Please report to the commander’s office as soon as possible.”
“I’m in the house. I’m on my way up.” She clicked off. And there went her thinking time. “Get the conference room set up for the briefing with Baxter and Trueheart. Start runs on the beneficiaries,” she continued as she strode to the elevator. “We need to check in with EDD, get the status, and check like crimes for anything that rings with the home invasion.”
In the elevator she ran through a host of other things she needed. She’d start on them herself once she’d met with Whitney.
The minute the elevator stopped so more cops could crowd in, she abandoned Peabody, headed for the glides.
She pulled out her ’link on the way, tagged Roarke.
It went straight through so that face—carved by the gods with eyes of impossible, soul-spinning blue—filled her screen. “I guess you’re not real busy buying a recently discovered solar system.”
“On my way back from a very long lunch meeting.” With those magical wisps of Ireland in his voice, he smiled with that perfectly sculpted mouth. “Did you manage a midday meal, Lieutenant?”
“I had some rat soup.”
Eyebrows as dark as his mane of black silk lifted. “How adventurous of you.”
“I’d rather have pizza. Anyway, I need an expert consultant, civilian—with a specialty in business. Big business. Mergers specifically.”
“You’re on the bombing at Quantum.” His smile faded. “Twelve dead at last count. Is Willimina Karson still living?”
“She was when I left the hospital. In a coma, critical, but among the living. You know her?”
“Only a bit. I knew Derrick Pearson a bit more, but not well. Still, I’m sorry for it all. A disgruntled employee who snapped is the line coming through the reports. I take it that’s not altogether accurate?”
“Not even close. Can you carve out time tonight? It might take a while.”
“I can, and always will. But I might be able to do better. I need an hour or so yet, but after that I can come to you at Central. Or wherever you may be.”
“Likely here at this stage. I’d appreciate it. I can’t get the meat when I don’t understand the . . . menu,” she decided.
“Then I’ll come to you when I finish up. Meanwhile, see if you can get my cop something more appealing than rat soup.”
“Yeah, thanks. See you when you get here.”
She clicked off as she approached Whitney’s outer office and admin.
“Go right in, Lieutenant,” the admin told her. “He’s expecting you.”
She stepped in.
Whitney stood at his wall of windows, his hands behind his back in parade rest as he studied his view of New York. He had broad shoulders, and they carried the weight of command well. His close-cropped hair had gray shot through the black.
“Before you report,” he began without turning, “I’ll tell you my wife and Derrick Pearson’s have been friends more than twenty years.”
“I’m very sorry, Commander, for her loss, and yours.”
“Thank you. Anna and Rozilyn Pearson are and have been close. While I consider her and considered Derrick friends, Anna and Roz are more like sisters. This is a very difficult day.”
He turned then, his wide, dark face solemn. “I want to add that when I informed Anna you’d taken charge of the investigation she expressed relief, and told me she’d comfort Rozilyn by telling her we have the best seeking answers and justice for Derrick.”
Rather than going to sit at his desk, he stood where he was, the towers and spires of Manhattan rising into the pale blue March sky at his back. “What answers do you have at this time?”
“You’re aware, sir, of the home invasion on the Rogan/Greenspan residence?”
“I have the report from the first-on-scene.”
“Two men—as both the wife and daughter identify the assailants as men—entered the residence in the early hours of Saturday morning. Detective Callendar is, at this time, analyzing, but reported on scene that the security on the home had been compromised gradually, layer by layer, over several attempts since December. Also in December, when the negotiations for the merger of Quantum and Econo began to solidify, Rogan’s domestic, and the only nonfamily member to have the security code, had her wallet and ’link lifted from her handbag. She reported same.”
“Ah,” was all he said.
“Further in December, an assistant in Rogan’s department returned home to find her apartment broken into. Her comp—with work data on it—was among the things taken.”
Whitney nodded. “It’s my understanding Rogan was marketing. He wasn’t finance or legal, or someone who would have been intimately connected with the terms of the merger or in its negotiations.”
“No, sir. But he and his team had worked on the marketing campaign for the merger, and he was to present that at the meeting this morning. Commander, they tortured him and his wife, his eight-year-old daughter for more than two full days. They beat his wife in front of him, let him know they could and would rape and kill her—and his daughter. They had cameras in the basement room where they moved and held the wife, and another in the daughter’s room where she was restrained to the bed.”
“I understand the duress, but Rogan walked into that conference room alone, and twelve people are dead.”
“I don’t know if it’s altogether true he was alone, sir. Some of the statements we’ve taken indicate he seemed to be speaking to someone, and they forced the daughter to call for her father into a ’link, to specifically cry out for him to help her.”
“Recorded it,” Whitney noted. “Most likely to play that throu
gh an earbud.”
“Yes, sir. They may have put a recorder on him as well.”
“To threaten him if he hesitated or attempted to contact the police.”
“That’s my belief, Commander. Sir, I’m not saying he had no choice, but that he believed he had no choice. He pulled the trigger, there’s no question of that. But he pulled it, the evidence at this point shows, to save his wife and daughter.”
Whitney expelled a breath. “I didn’t know Rogan, but Derrick mentioned him more than once. I know Derrick thought highly of him. Fondly of him and his family.”
“He had plans for a celebration with his team after the meeting, Commander. He’d arranged for refreshments with a caterer, was putting through for bonuses for two assistants. He noted down to stop on the way home Monday for flowers for both his wife and daughter as a thank-you for understanding how much time he’d put into the work. He didn’t leave Quantum Friday evening with plans to bomb the meeting. There is no evidence we’ve found to show he had any connection to explosives, or the knowledge to build or acquire the vest.”
Whitney nodded. “What do we know about the two men?”
“The sweepers were covering the house when I left it. Frankly, sir, I don’t expect them to find much of anything we can use. These men were careful. They’d planned this for months. But I believe at least one of them is military or police, active or former. I lean military, and when Salazar and her team examine the bomb fragments, I believe they’ll show some experience with explosives.”
She detailed the rest—the interviews, the angles, the upcoming briefing, and her working theory.
“I’ve asked Roarke to consult,” she added, “for the business angle, the ins and outs of a merger on this scale. And the ups and downs of it. Straight terrorism, Commander, there’d be a statement by now. Some group would take credit. A vendetta against one or more of the individuals in the meeting? It’s too broad and complicated for that.”
“So a strike at one or both of the companies,” he concluded, “or the merger itself.”