Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Yeah, terrorize Rogan into blowing up the Quantum meeting Monday morning, collect the winnings, most likely. Then move on Banks who’s stupid enough to put a target on his back. Steal the painting and electronics and/or records that connect you, head over to the next mark and get to work.”

  She circled the room. “Banks wasn’t planned, but they fit him in. They had to deal with him before they moved to the next mark. Cut off that loose end first—and get the bonus point.”

  The smell of death was everywhere, lives snuffed out in an instant.

  “Eighteen people now, but it’s not about racking up the body count. If that interested them, they’d have waited and had Denby strapped up tonight when the place was full of art lovers.”

  She looked at the charred remains. “It’s not about people at all. It’s about profit. Nothing else. Peabody, let’s talk to the witnesses. Carmichael, Santiago, stick for Salazar.”

  They spoke to the assistant first, who shook and wept and added little. Peabody arranged for her to tag her roommate and to be transported home.

  Eve stepped into the back office for the next round. “If I could speak to you next, Ms. Aceti.”

  “I’m not leaving Joe.” She sat beside him, the hand of her uninjured arm clutching his. Her broken arm splinted with a temporary cast and resting in a sling. “I won’t.”

  “All right. We’ll talk right here, all of us.” She sat across from them. The woman had some facial nicks, a few tears and scorch marks on her shirt and trousers. She’d tied her hair—long enough to hit her waist with copper streaks through inky black—back from a face ivory pale with shock. Her deep-set brown eyes blazed against it.

  Her partner sat, slumped, dazed, eyes swollen from weeping. His skin, nearly the color of the woman’s streaks, made Eve think of Leonardo. He wore his hair in dozens of intricate braids.

  His black turtleneck and silver-studded black jeans smelled of smoke.

  “I know this is a difficult time, and again, I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve glanced over briefly as Peabody came in, sat. “We have to ask questions.”

  “I have questions,” Aceti said with an edge of fury. “I have questions, too. And I’m telling you right now, Wayne would never, never do this unless . . . We’ve all known each other since college. We loved each other, do you understand?”

  “I do. We—”

  “It’s like what happened at Quantum. It’s all over the screen about somebody hurting that man’s family, threatening them until he—did what he did. It’s the same! I need to know about Zelda and Evan. I won’t tell you a goddamn thing until you tell us about Zelda and Evan. She’s pregnant.”

  Aceti’s lips trembled. “She’s pregnant.”

  “And she’s stable. The MTs treated her, and she’s been taken to the hospital.”

  “The baby?”

  “As far as I know she and the baby are stable.”

  “Evan. He’s only five.”

  “He wasn’t hurt. Scared, but not hurt. You need to talk to me, both of you.”

  “They were supposed to leave yesterday morning. They were supposed to be away until later today. We had everything under control here for tonight. And they were taking Evan to Disney for an overnight treat, and to tell him he was going to have a baby brother or sister. They didn’t know which yet. They hadn’t told anyone else but me and Joe, and their parents. They wanted to tell Evan first. We thought they were away, having fun, and all the time, they must have . . .”

  She leaned toward Eve, aggressive, fierce. “It’s not Wayne’s fault.”

  “No, it’s not. You may be able to help us find the people who are at fault.”

  “Wayne’s dead.” The aggression died as she sat back. “We were the Best People at his wedding, Joe and I. We started this place together. We made it into something.”

  “Tell me what happened.”

  “I didn’t expect him for a couple more hours. We had everything in place. Just a matter of loading in. We’d already diagramed where we were placing the paintings, the sketches. I was in the front with Cista, and we were going over where we’d set up the bar, the refreshments. Angelo, the artist, was in the gallery left—with Trent and Dustin. They’d removed the art we’d had displayed there, had begun placing Angelo’s work. Joe was in the office.”

  “Were you open to the public?”

  “The Salon’s closed on Wednesdays. We try to schedule openings for Wednesday nights so we can do the loading in. The show would run for four weeks, but the opening’s when you draw the biggest crowd, and the media, the art critics. We’re—we’re known for our Wednesday night openings. Wayne came in.”

  Her voice began to shake. “He came in, and he looked pale, sick. I started to say something, and he snapped at me. He never snapped, but he did. “‘Stay out here. You and Cista stay out here.’”

  She blew out a breath. “I just stood there, so stunned because he had snapped and looked sick. Angry, too. Then I got a little angry myself. What the hell was this? And I started across the room. The explosion—it was terrible. It was like being picked up and thrown by some huge, hot wave. I just flew, then I felt this awful pain. My arm. And Cista was on the floor, too. I could see fire, smell it. I was so scared. I yelled at her to get out, to call for help, and I started to run back for Joe.

  “He came running out. The sprinklers didn’t come on. Joe said, ‘We have to put the fire out,’ and he ran back. We have an emergency fire suppression tank in the back. He put out the fire. He walked right through the arch and put out the fire. But . . .”

  “It was too late,” Kotler whispered. “Too late. I didn’t know Wayne was . . . I didn’t know until Ilene told me. Dustin. I knew Dustin was . . . My nephew. He’s only nineteen. Gap year. He just wanted to work here before he started college. My nephew Dustin.”

  He began to weep, harsh, gulping sobs. Aceti put her good arm around him, drew him against her. Then she, too, began to weep.

  Eve gestured to Peabody, moved with her to the door.

  “See if you can get any more out of them. About the artist. If they sold any of his earlier work, who bought it. You know what to ask.”

  She stepped out, took a breath of air that wasn’t thick with grief. Roarke tucked away his PPC, moved to her.

  “Remotely compromised, the fire suppression system and its alarm. Nothing else. They never tried for the locks, or the cameras. The suppression system’s been off since early this morning. About five A.M.”

  He glanced toward the door, and the sound of weeping. “Nothing shatters lives like violent death.”

  “No. I need to talk to Salazar.”

  She walked to the archway, and with a word to one of her people, Salazar came out. “The morgue’s picking up their pieces. We’re picking up ours. And I can tell you, just by the eyeball, it’s going to be the same bomb maker. Military grade. We’ve got his signature now.”

  “Can you trace the components?”

  “We can try. The fricking black market on this is a maze. And if he’s got any brains, he’s not getting everything from one source. I think he’s got brains. I’ll push on my end the same as you’ll push on yours. You know the thing about making bombs, Dallas?”

  “They go boom.”

  “Yeah, and the juice of making the go-boom, the intricacy, even the risk it goes boom on you? It’s addicting. He’s got two under his belt—at least. He’s going to build more.”

  “I know it. He’s having a hell of a good time, and making a steady profit.” She took a last hard look as the morgue team bagged parts of human beings. “He’s going to have a fucking downturn. I swear to God.”

  15

  Eve went by the Denby residence, the expected single-family home in the West Village. All three floors already swarmed with sweepers.

  No basement, she noted, but a large utility area. And there they’d bound the battered, terrified pregnant woman, tied her to the exposed pipes under a work sink.

  Eve crouched down, examine
d the blood smears on the pipes. And the scratches—fresh—along the thick joint. She found a screwdriver, also blood-smeared, on the floor.

  “Got her hands on this somehow.” Curious, Eve opened a drawer on an old cabinet beside the sink. “Out of here. A few household tools in here. She must’ve gotten it out, tried to use it to hack through the pipe.”

  “If her hands were bound to that pipe, she must’ve used her foot. Her feet.”

  Eve nodded as she straightened. “Yeah, managed to get the screwdriver out of the drawer, nudge it over, over until she could reach it with her hands. Had to take time and a lot of sweaty, uncomfortable effort.”

  She stepped out, into the kitchen, and found Feeney walking in.

  “They said you were down here.”

  “And they said EDD was here. They didn’t say the captain.”

  His droopy eyes hardened. “I wanted to handle this one myself. It’s pissing me off.”

  “Get in line.”

  “Remoted it,” he told her. “In layers, just like before. System wasn’t as high-end as the last one, but it’s damn good. Good toys is what they’ve got, Dallas. They paid for good toys and somebody who knows how to modify and enhance them. Or they’ve got the skills to build the toys.”

  “Maybe, maybe they’ve got the skills, but they’re not B and E pros. Not thieves, professionally.” She moved with him and Peabody through the house. “Easy valuables, including jewelry. Upstairs you’ve got suitcases already packed, and some things left out probably going in last minute. Safe upstairs in the master? Better jewelry and cash inside.”

  “Was it open?” he asked her.

  “No. I’m getting pretty good at opening safes, so I did. It’s just a glorified lockbox. They spent more on art, from the looks of it, than shiny bits, but there were some in there. And the cash. Not thieves,” she repeated.

  “They like scaring and hurting people,” Peabody put in. “Thieves just want to get in, score, get out. They like terrifying a family, and making the father the sacrifice.”

  Frowning, Eve turned to her. “‘Sacrifice’?”

  “He is, isn’t he? He’s their human bomb.”

  “Yeah. Yeah.” She paced the living area. Photographs, a few toys, a lot of art. “Flip that. He’s the hero. Saves his family. He’s the hero who sacrifices himself. Maybe it’s a Mira thing, but . . . Maybe one or both of them had a father or authority figure who sacrificed himself.”

  “Or didn’t,” Feeney added.

  “Or didn’t. Let’s look at Markin’s military relatives’ records. Could be. We’re going back to the lists. If not Markin, they’re on the board. At least one of them’s on the board. Let’s hunt these fuckers down before they do this to another family.”

  “You really think they’d do it again?”

  “They like it, remember?” Feeney answered Peabody.

  “Add to it, they must have had at least one contingency. If they couldn’t torture Rogan and Denby into it, they’d have another ready to go.”

  “We’ll take their e’s in,” Feeney said. “We’ll see if we can get a cross-match on anyone who’s on the first target. Anything that crosses, we’ll find it.”

  “They knew enough about both of them to play the game. Paths crossed somewhere.”

  Stock market, business mergers, art, military, explosives, Eve thought as she drove to Angelo Richie’s loft. Where was the line that ran through them all, connecting them?

  “Just to get on and off it,” Peabody said, “with this second hit, I understand I can’t take off for the awards. McNab, either. We need to stick on this.”

  “We’re not going there yet.”

  “I just want to say the job comes first. So . . . I’m going to check in with Baxter, get the status on the wife and kid.”

  “Do that.” She wasn’t going to think about it, Eve determined. Personal issues had to wait. Because, yes, the job comes first.

  “Banks was a link,” she said, more to herself than to Peabody. “His relationship with Karson on the first, his connection to Richie’s work on the second. That makes him the linchpin on both. What else does he connect to?”

  “The wife’s stable,” Peabody announced. “So’s the fetus. They’re keeping her on hospital bed rest for the next twenty-four. The kid’s fine,” she continued. “The wife’s parents have him. Baxter and Trueheart were able to get statements, and they’re on their way to Central to report.”

  “Give them Richie’s address, have them head there instead. Gambling. Another link—Banks to Markin. It’s all gambling—stock market, art world. Maybe the next is more direct.”

  “Blow up a casino?”

  “I don’t know what that gets you.” Eve, hunting for a parking space, felt both shock and glee at spotting one nearly in front of Richie’s building.

  Maybe it was a loading zone, but she snagged it.

  “A competitor’s?” she continued. “Still, that’s not quick profit in your pocket. And first, we need a back check on people who bought Richie’s work, so we need the galleries or art brokers, whatever else he used to market them.”

  She stepped onto the sidewalk, studied the squat, square block of the building.

  It sat back from the sidewalk with a scrubby patch of winter-yellow grass fronting it. The building itself—four stories—appeared to be built of cinder blocks painted a quiet green. Some old factory, she assumed, repurposed to lofts and sturdy enough to have survived the Urbans.

  As they started over a concrete walkway, Peabody considered, “If he went to Italy to live and work for a stretch . . .”

  “Yeah.” Eve could feel the headache coming on as they walked to the steel entrance doors. “It means dealing internationally, and that’s going to slow it all down. Roarke has one of the paintings. Richie’s.”

  “He does?”

  “He said it’s in one of the guest rooms.” She scanned the call buttons—fifteen—then the security. Low end, bordering on pitiful. “Something . . . Moonlight.” Pulling out her master, she breezed through the locks, into a kind of vestibule with a muscular freight elevator. “Woman in Moonlight.”

  “Oh! I know that one! I didn’t know who painted it, but it’s in where we usually stay when we hang over night. It’s really beautiful, all blues and silvers and mystical.”

  When, after eyeing the freight elevator, Eve aimed for the stairs, Peabody just thought: Loose pants. And started the trudge up four levels.

  “Whatever. He’s got one, maybe he can help pin down other sales. Especially since these bastards will have multiples.”

  Rather than the graffiti, the stray used condom, the smell of beer vomit, she expected in a low-end downtown building, murals roamed along the walls. Scenes of green parks or fanciful castles with fountains, fire-breathing dragons, winged nudes.

  “I bet Richie wasn’t the only artist living here. It’s probably something like a commune.”

  “Only two units on this level,” Eve noted when they reached the fourth. Music thumped against the door of the unit on the right. She turned to Richie’s, mastered through.

  She wasn’t surprised, and as her hand was already on her weapon, drew it. Inside the large space with its wide front-facing window, canvases hung in tatters. Others lay scattered on the floor destroyed by sharps or a stomped foot.

  “Clear it.”

  A quick job, as other than the main space the loft had a single bedroom and bath, a small kitchen.

  “Eliminate as much of his work as you can.” Disgusted, Eve shoved her weapon in its holster. “The value of what you’ve got goes up.”

  “It’s a crime. I don’t mean to throttle back on the human lives taken, Dallas, but to destroy art like this? No way they’re art lovers. No way they could do this if they were. The art’s just—”

  “An investment, and they maximized their profit. Let’s nail down the timing. When they got in, when they got out. Because if they took the trouble to steal one of Richie’s pieces from Banks, I’m betting
they took some from here, then wiped out the rest. When did Richie leave here for the Salon, when did they cut Denby loose to go to the Salon? We’ve got Denby’s arrival time, the bombing, so when did they fit this in?

  “Field kits, Peabody.”

  She moved across the hall, jammed a finger on the buzzer.

  With music still thumping, the door swung open. “Look, Lollie, I told you—Sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  The woman hit about five-three with well-muscled arms and a mermaid tat along her left biceps exposed by a black tank. She had her dark blond hair bundled up under a flowered kerchief and wore baggy gray pants tucked into steel-toed boots. Goggles hung by a strap around her neck.

  She held a wicked-looking chisel.

  “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”

  “Okay.” She stuck the chisel in the short leather tool belt at her waist. “Why?”

  “Do you know Angelo Richie?”

  “Sure. He lives across the hall. Again, why?”

  “He’s dead.”

  The woman laughed. “What are you talking about? He’s over at the Salon loading in for his opening. He has a major show opening tonight.”

  “Not anymore.”

  The first sign of anxiety clouded soft, hazel eyes. Her voice sharpened with it. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “You tell me what you’re talking about first.”

  “There was an explosion this afternoon at the Salon. Angelo Richie and four others were killed.”

  “Explosion. Like—like a gas explosion? I don’t . . . Wait, just wait.” She turned, dragging off the kerchief. A lot of tangled, tousled hair fell.

  Eve stepped in, noted the space nearly mirrored Richie’s. This one appeared to be divided into stations, one with stones—raw stones—and one on a workbench with mallets, more chisels. A half-formed face emerged from the pillar of stone.

  Another area held welding tools, another had a worktable, stacks of metal.

  “Could I have your name?”

  The woman turned back, face pale, breathing ragged. “What?”

  “Your name, please.”