by J. D. Robb
He stood, walked to her, cupped her face in his hands. “The dead weigh on you. Twelve with one blow, it’s a great deal of weight.”
“It’ll make locking the cage on these two more satisfying. With you? I’ve got leverage.”
He smiled, touched his lips to hers. “I’ll go play with my friends then, until we take this home.”
He’d do that, she thought when he left her. Spend his time working with cops, stick with her when she brought the dead home with her. Leverage, hell, she decided. He was her personal miracle.
She went to her desk, intending to contact Mira’s office, shifted gears when her comp signaled incoming.
She read Lieutenant Salazar’s preliminary report.
“I knew it,” Eve said aloud. “Military.”
She contacted Mira, spent two precious minutes haggling with Mira’s dragon of an admin before winning a short consult. In the bullpen she stopped at Peabody’s desk.
“Salazar’s team’s starting to identify components of the explosive. Her analysis, so far, indicates some of them, at least, are military grade.”
“That’s what you thought.”
“It’s good to have some confirmation. I’m heading down for a consult with Mira.”
“I’ve got a list of Quantum and Econo employees who were out sick or on scheduled leave. None of them were on the meeting agenda. I’m just starting runs.”
“Do that, and add Elsa Sissle—she delivered a muffin every day to Rogan. Works at Quick ‘n Tasty, in the building. Rogan used All Trans, and a driver named Herbert. Global was his messenger service. If you don’t get to those, I’ll take them when I’m done with Mira. Roarke tossed in a theory. Baxter!” She signaled a come-ahead.
Both he and Trueheart got up from their desks. Baxter edged a hip onto the corner of Peabody’s.
“Econo’s and Quantum’s stocks took a deep dive after the explosion.”
“You had to figure it,” Baxter said. “I checked a few minutes ago. Still falling. A lot of people losing their shirts today, and the companies are going to be hurting. Somebody had it in for one or both.”
“Roarke has a different take. Do this to cause the dive, maybe work the . . . margin or whatever, but buy when it tanks.”
“That’s a hell of a risk, boss. It could take months for those companies to recover.”
“Roarke’s convinced the merger’s going through, and the stocks will start going up by end of business today or by tomorrow. Look for statements from the company brass. Look for announcements of the merger going through, and for the numbers to climb up. That’s his take.”
“Wait, so he thinks all of this is so these assholes can buy low, sell high?” On a half laugh, Baxter ran a hand over his well-styled hair. “That’s fucking brilliant. Cold as it gets, but brilliant.”
“We need to look at this angle. Those absent for work? We want to dig into their financials. Same with employees close to Rogan or Pearson or Karson. He also said talk of the merger’s been going on for about a year.”
“They kept it pretty down low then. But that gives the unsubs a lot of time to come up with the system, and how to play it.”
“At least one of them’s military. He’s going to have experience with explosives. Factor it in. I’m with Mira.”
6
Eve found the admin’s desk unoccupied, Mira’s door open, and inwardly cheered her luck. Mira stood at her AutoChef, her mink-colored hair swept back in sassy curls. She wore one of her slim, stylish suits, this one the color of ripe peaches paired with needle-thin heels that hit somewhere between green and blue. Mira turned, soft blue eyes in a pretty face, smiled.
“You’re prompt. Tea?”
“No, thanks. I appreciate you fitting me in.”
“I had a busy morning, but the afternoon’s easier. Have a seat.”
The department’s top profiler and shrink sat in one of the two blue scoop chairs, crossed her excellent legs and balanced a delicate cup and saucer. “My morning was jammed,” she continued as Eve sat. “I did hear bits and pieces about the bombing at Quantum, but only that an employee, an executive, entered a meeting with EconoLift execs wearing a suicide vest. Twelve dead, more injured.”
“I’m going to send you full reports, but if I can highlight it for you, it’ll save time.”
“Of course.”
“In the early hours of Saturday morning, two men circumvented the security on Paul Rogan’s home,” Eve began.
She wound through it quickly while Mira nodded and sipped her tea. She listened, without interruption, until Eve finished.
“So Rogan was terrorized, tortured, and coerced by two unidentified men who held his family hostage. You’ve found no connection between Rogan and the men, no motive for Rogan to have been a willing part of the bombing. And from what you’ve learned, the men likely targeted him months before—when news of the potential merger leaked.”
“Exactly.”
“Everything you’ve learned of Rogan, from the contents of his desk, his home, his memo books, from statements from his family, his coworkers, his staff, describes not only a loyal, hardworking employee, a fair-and-balanced team leader, but more key, a devoted family man, a man who loved his wife and daughter. That makes him an excellent target, but it’s hardly a guarantee he’d set off the bomb, taking his own life and the lives of others.”
“They weighed the odds, and gambled.”
“Yes. Well, what did they have to lose? If he refused, they lost nothing but time and effort. They simply walk away.” She paused, sipped. “One did most of the talking, most of the violence on the wife, while the other kept watch on the girl, but didn’t really harm her. Terrorized her emotionally, but not physically.”
“She said he loosened her wrist restraints a little, but the other yanked her hair to make her yell or cry.”
“So the parents, separated from her, would hear and not know what was happening to their daughter. They could’ve done much worse, even to the wife—no sexual assault, but the threat of rape, again to show Rogan what could happen if he didn’t do what they asked.”
“His wife said the one who dealt with them kept asking Rogan what he would do to save his wife and child. What would he do to protect his wife and child. Not their names, but always your wife and child.”
“A constant reminder they were his responsibility. It was his choice. It’s psychological torture, as was separating him from his wife, locking her in a basement room, showing him how helpless and hurt she was. They knew what they were doing, or certainly the one—the more dominant—knew. He may very well have interrogated and/or coerced prisoners before. Your hunch that he’s military seems sound.”
“I’ve brought Roarke in—expert on business, mergers, and all that. He has a theory. The stock of both companies took a dive—his word—after the bombing. Ah, he says the stock market’s emotional.”
“Really? I never thought of that.”
“So it—the market—panics, the stock takes the dive. The unsubs buy a shitload, then wait for the merger to go through, or the announcement that it will, whatever.”
“The stocks climb again, and they make a great deal of money.”
“Roarke says a big profit. I get it, but it’s a complicated, risky, and violent way to play the damn stock market.”
Mira set her tea aside, sat back. “The fun’s in the gamble, isn’t it? Especially when you’ve nothing to lose, and have the money to risk. They’ll have money to risk, so they’ll have accumulated the stake one way or the other. They understand how the market works, know business. They, or one of them, knew enough about business and the merger to plot out the bombing. They have patience—it took months. And it took two days inside the Rogan home.
“The violence against the wife was nothing more than a tool. No real need to physically harm the child, especially as they kept her separated. The separation was enough, particularly with the recordings. So the dominant one may be no stranger to violence, but he uses it
as a means.
“Sociopaths,” she continued, “mature with military background, a knowledge of explosives and psychological tactics. They can and did profile Paul Rogan. They’re intelligent, or surely the dominant one is intelligent when it comes to tactics, and trusts his partner. They’ve known each other, have a bond. They might even be related, but there’s trust. They understand family,” she murmured. “They understand that bond, and a father’s love. One or both may have children or a child. And they’re gamblers, ones willing to risk for a big payoff.”
“And arrogant?” Eve leaned forward. “They didn’t kill the wife and kid. I get the no need, but they left loose ends. They just didn’t see it that way because they’re so fucking clever. But the kid heard them talking, and leaving her alive I have more. The wife formed impressions, and same goes. Is it arrogance, overconfidence, or did they see it as keeping their hands clean?”
“The last is interesting, isn’t it? Rogan’s responsibility again? It’s possible, and interesting.”
“It’s one thing to send some guy out with a bomb, another to kill a woman and kid, both bound.”
“It becomes personal, and all the rest is, certainly to them, impersonal. It’s just gambling.”
“Okay. Thanks.” Eve rose. “They could bank a million, maybe a couple million. Maybe it’s all they were after, but gamblers gamble. It worked, as far as they’re concerned.”
With a nod, Mira recrossed her legs. “Yes, they’re likely to try it again, try to find a way to manipulate the market to their advantage. Whatever it entails. The fun’s in the risk.”
“And when the stocks go up, they’ll have a bigger stake.”
“One more thing.” As she considered, Mira tapped a finger on her knee. “From what we have at this point, I’d say if they’re related, one would be the older—older brother, cousin. Father and son is more a stretch as they strike me more as contemporaries. If they worked together, one is more experienced, perhaps a kind of mentor. The dominant one is the older, more experienced, more tactical. And very likely more ruthless.”
“One yanks the kid’s hair, the other one loosens the zip ties so they don’t hurt.”
“Yes. I don’t believe the dominant would have left the child able to get up and cleverly break the window to alert the police. The police would have entered regardless, but it would have taken more time. This cut that down, and was, most likely, simple carelessness.”
“That’s how I see it. Brothers,” Eve mused. “Not necessarily by blood, but closely tied. That’s an angle. Thanks again.”
On her way back to Homicide, she played with the gambling angle. Was it just stocks, the market, or did it extend? Cards, the tables, horses, sports?
Two men, closely tied, who liked to play risk and reward, calculate the odds, had enough of a stake to make it worthwhile. Patient, intelligent, and without conscience.
She tagged Peabody. “Conference room. I’ve got a couple fresh angles.” After another moment’s thought, she tagged Roarke as well. “I’m going to brief the team on a couple new angles. I can fill you in later if you’re into something in the geek lab.”
“I am, but I like angles. I’ll come down, and get back to this.”
“Good enough.”
She moved directly into the conference room, began updating the board with Mira’s profile.
“Dallas.” Peabody hustled in. “Karson’s conscious. She made a statement through her rep—and the Pearson family made one to coordinate. After the personal stuff on both sides—regrets, sympathy, grief—the upshot is the merger’s on. They expect to finalize the deal tomorrow, with the Quantum reps signing with Karson in her hospital room.”
“That’s fast. Contact the hospital, get us cleared to interview Karson.”
“Will do. Baxter and Trueheart are just finishing something up. They’ll be here in a couple minutes.”
“That’s all I need.” Eve continued to work. “Roarke’s heading down. He should be able to tell us what these statements do to the stocks. You need to go back to my office, get us all some decent coffee.”
“I can be all over that one.”
She started for the door when Baxter and Trueheart started in.
“I’m getting real coffee.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Trueheart said, going with her as Baxter wandered to the board.
“Brothers,” he noted. “By blood, in-arms, by choice. That makes solid sense. Sociopaths—big duh on that one—but gamblers? That adds interest, and adds more solid sense.”
“When two experts—Roarke and Mira—use similar terms, I go with it.”
“Both companies’ stocks took major hits. I checked about a half hour ago. Being an ethical son of a bitch, I refrained from calling my broker and saying buy me some of that, baby. But, kiss my ass, it was tempting.”
Curious, Eve glanced back. “How much would you have tossed in?”
“If I didn’t know about all this? Mmm, maybe five each. Knowing, double that.”
“Seriously. You’re a fucking NYPSD detective, and you’ve got twenty large to gamble?”
“I have my ways.” He turned as Roarke came in. “How much would you have laid on Quantum and Econo an hour ago?”
“Well now, if my cop wouldn’t have given me the hard eye? Two hundred on each, as I know some of the players well enough to be reasonably certain on a fine return. And . . .”
He pulled out his ’link, tapped. “I’d have already gained considerable as both companies’ stocks are on the move. Up.”
“Easy come.” Baxter sighed. “Easy go.”
“Already going up?” Eve asked.
“With the statements some twenty minutes ago,” Roarke told her, “they’re inching up. They’ll be higher than they were before the dive, I’m thinking, by end of business. Emotion,” he reminded her. “Some will see this as courageous and strong. Others will just see the opportunity. Some who scooped up the bargain will sell, and others will buy what they see as a strong, solid stock.”
“It’s a gamble,” Eve noted as Peabody and Trueheart came in with a pot of coffee and a tray of mugs, some creamer, some sugar.
“Run that part by them,” Eve told Roarke.
As he did, he took out his PPC and skimmed. “Still moving up,” he added. “If they’re in for the kill, they’ll likely wait until near close of the market, then sell off. I’d do just that in their place.”
“Can we track the sell-offs?” Eve asked him.
“If they’re idiots, yes. From what I see on your board, they’re not.”
“How would you do it, not being an idiot?”
“I’d be using numbered accounts in any of a number of locations that offer anonymity, on-planet or off. Myself, I’d lean to off, but it takes longer for the transactions. So for them? I’d lean on-planet, offshore, safe havens, and if they’re particularly bright, they’d layer it in shells.”
“Could you dig them out?”
He shifted his gaze up to hers. Clearly, to him, she wondered if he could use his unregistered equipment to run deep, ethically shadowy searches. “Eventually,” he said, and smiled.
“Peabody, start working on warrants.”
So not the unregistered, he thought, as yet. Pity.
“Meanwhile,” Eve continued, “we’re looking for two males, with at least one of them having some military background that would include working with explosives. They might be related, or have worked together. They trust each other. One is likely older and more dominant. Gamblers, sociopaths, and patient ones who take time to research and work out the details. They’ll have some business knowledge, and understand the stock market.”
“It won’t be their first investment,” Baxter put in. “I’d bank against them plotting out a scheme like this first try.”
“Agreed. Possibly they’ve worked in the market. Financial advisers, stockbrokers. Dabblers, such as yourself.”
“As a dabbler, I’m with Roarke on the on-planet, offshore acc
ount. Maybe more than one?”
Roarke nodded. “Almost certainly. It costs a bit more to buy and sell in increments, but adds another layer of that anonymity. No particularly large transactions through a single account.”
“Um.” Trueheart lifted a hand. “How much could they make?”
“Well now, if they bought at or near the low . . .” Roarke checked the numbers again. “And again, in their place I’d have had one eye on the market, and the other on the media, watching movement on the first, and for statements or announcements on the other, and they hold on until near the peak? Considering the two companies to work with, the steep dive, the steady recovery? I wouldn’t quibble they’ll make ten times their investment, and that’s a tidy profit.”
“Trueheart,” Eve said, “start looking at employees, both companies. Former employees, too, and give a hard look at anyone terminated for cause. Dabbling Baxter, take a look at financial types, emphasis on those who lean toward high risk. Check for that military—add paramilitary—background. Then see if there’s any cross. And let’s consider it’s high on the probability scale that one or both of these fuckheads met or crossed paths with Rogan. Nothing overt, nothing that Rogan would have thought about. Maybe they used the same gym—at least during the stalking stage. Played golf at the same course, whatever. Any name pops more than once, we dig deeper. Questions?”
“Bound to have some once we start on it.” Baxter looked at Trueheart. “We’re going to be busy, my young apprentice, so let’s get on it.”
“Peabody and I are in the field. Roarke?”
“I’ll wander my way back to EDD for now. Let me know if you’ll be back, and I’ll ride home with you.”
“I’ll be back, Peabody, with me. Grab your gear.”
She swung through Homicide, grabbed her own, swung out again as Peabody caught up. “Are we clear to interview Karson?”
“The medicals agreed to fifteen minutes—and that’s because Karson herself insisted. My impression is she’s pissed as much as hurt, but that’s my impression through her rep.”
“Wouldn’t you be?” As she alternated elevators with glides to the garage, Eve thought it through. “Family business. Successful one. She’s about to make a deal that expands it, takes it up a level or two. Before she can clinch it, she’s blown into a coma and wakes up in ICU. I’d be righteously pissed.”