by J. D. Robb
“It’s the right civilian.”
“Yeah, but still . . . Shit. Do you have to pull McNab back in?”
“Nah. I’ve got enough boys to work his stuff. You can have Callendar if you need her since she’s got a good rhythm with you and the rest. The wife says I gotta watch this year, and won’t take no.” He grimaced into his coffee. “I gotta watch a bunch of Hollywood types in fancy getups making speeches and shit. I blame you.”
“Me?” Shock, insult vibrated. “Blame Nadine.”
“I blame her, too.” He looked at the board, scanned the names, the faces. “How sure are you they’re on there?”
“At least one of them’s there. At least one. You don’t break into one of Roarke’s places—and this one was high-end—unless you live there or have legit access. I think he or they live there. Know the building, knew Banks. That’s what plays, and since it plays, these are the ones who best fit the profile.”
She got more coffee as he studied the board. “I have to watch, too.”
“Your own fault.”
“It’s Nadine’s fault,” Eve insisted, with considerable frustration. “I was doing the job. She wrote the damn book, then the script thing. And if she wins this thing? Every time I think it’s going to ease off—there are people saying: Oh, I read the book, saw the vid. Big fan! Like I give a cold crap about any of that. If she wins this damn thing, it’s going to be an even bigger pain in my ass.”
She cut herself off mid rant when Whitney stepped in.
“Sir.”
“Lieutenant, Captain. I noted you’d reserved the conference room. I’m only here for a short time this morning as Anna and I are attending Derrick Pearson’s memorial.” He walked to the board as he spoke. “He’s one of eighteen now.”
“It’s a tough one, Commander,” Feeney said.
“Yes.”
They went back, Eve knew. Way back. But it wouldn’t be Jack and Ryan under these circumstances.
“Are these your primary suspects?”
“At this time, yes, sir.”
“From your last report, you’ve found no direct link to either Paul Rogan or Wayne Denby.”
“Not to them or to any of the victims as yet.”
“Not to Derrick,” Whitney murmured. “So if I happen to see one of these faces at the memorial . . .”
“I’d very much appreciate it, should that transpire, if you would bring said individual into Central.”
Whitney smiled, grimly. “You can count on it. I’ll stay for the briefing, or as much as I can. Is that real coffee?”
“Yes, sir.”
She moved to pour him some herself, heard Peabody’s clump, McNab’s prance. “Peabody—” Eve’s brows drew together at Peabody’s overbright eyes and wildly patterned scarf. “Before you settle in, go program another pot of coffee from my office.”
“You got it! Good morning, Commander! Hey, Feeney! Be right back!” Exclamation points struck every couple of words before she all but bounced away.
McNab lifted his skinny shoulders in a gesture as sheepish as his smile. “She’s a little buzzed,” he explained to Eve.
“She’s what?”
“Departmentally approved booster,” he said quickly. “She put in a long night because grateful—me, too—about the Oscar thing. Beyond mega thanks on that, Dallas.”
“Don’t mention it. I’m fucking serious.”
“Okay, but see she gets a little hyped on the boost, but more before I caught her, she’d dipped into our emergency stash of espresso. It’s like gold, you know—we bought it for each other at Christmas. Anyway, she took a shot of that, so she’s pretty buzzed out.”
“Keep her under control,” Eve warned.
“Trying.”
Eve pressed her fingers to her eyes. When Baxter and Trueheart walked in, she hoped they’d balance things out.
Then Peabody came in. She’d ditched the scarf and the pink coat. Eve almost preferred them to the screaming red sweater with fussy pink flounces at the cuffs, the shiny, electric-blue jacket and Jesus neon-green pants with frigging pink flowers down the sides.
“Peabody.” Baxter let out a half laugh. “You look like a garden.”
“It’s almost spring! Coffee!”
“None for you,” Eve snapped.
“Aw!”
“Water,” she ordered McNab. “Only water.”
“On it.”
“Sit.” She pulled the pot from Peabody, who she noted with resignation, also smelled like a garden. “I’m going to summarize where we are, then we’ll move on to where we’re going. Before I do: Feeney, anything?”
“Entry to the Rogan and Denby houses by the same methods. We’ve found nothing on either man’s communications or data systems, their house systems, office systems, the devices of family members, that connect them to the bombings. EDD concurs with Homicide these individuals were coerced and not complicit.
“Banks,” he continued. “The more we look, the shadier he comes off. We got nothing linking him directly with the bombings at this point. If he wasn’t dead, he’d do a nice long stretch for fraud, embezzlement, money laundering, and more petty shit, but he’s dead. He had some gambling debts—nothing big enough for spine-crackers—but there might be a connection there. You got that in the last report.”
“We’ll follow it up,” Eve confirmed.
“McNab’s got some he dug out last night.”
“We’ve got a tag coming in on Banks’s house ’link,” McNab began. “He had one in the pantry deal in the kitchen they missed when they turned the place.”
“A house ’link in the pantry?”
“Yeah,” he told Eve. “A mini I guess he had in there for the droids to use. On the night of his murder, just before midnight he got a tag on it. No message when the ’link went to the answering system. Another tag to Denby’s house ’link two hours earlier. A hang-up when answered from the residence. Another to the Richie apartment minutes before the bombing at The Salon, and one more to Rogan’s house ’link on the night of the home invasion at twenty-two-ten. A hang-up when answered.”
Subtly, he pressed a hand to Peabody’s bouncing knee, kept talking. “All of these tags were made from a cloner. We can’t trace the device, but we’ve been working on tracing the locations of the transmissions. We nailed Richie’s first—he only had the one house ’link, and apparently didn’t really use it. The transmission came from right outside the building.”
“Making sure nobody was in the unit,” Eve concluded. “Maybe Richie had a friend over, a woman in there, whatever. Just making sure the space was clear.”
“We figure, yeah, as we’ve nailed down Banks. Lived alone, too, rarely used the house system. Transmission in this case? From inside the building.”
“Inside.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eve looked back at the board. “One of them lives there, was on a guest list or vendor employ. But lives there works best. Banks contacted them that day. It’s a big stretch to believe his killers just happened to be going to a party in his building, or to a job there. Security’s tight there, as good as it gets. We bump down the guests and the vendors. We’re going to interview the ones that fit profile, but they’re not priority.
“How about the others?”
“I nailed down Rogan’s early this morning. Transmission from a block south of the residence. Denby’s I worked some on the subway. I’m close. Give me another twenty, and I’ll have it.”
“Take the twenty, confirm, but it’ll fit pattern. The important one at this time? The one made from inside the building.
“Okay, let me wrap up where we are,” Eve began, pausing as Whitney rose.
“That’s all the time I have this morning. Detective McNab, good work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Lieutenant, hunt them down.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stopped by Peabody’s chair, glanced at McNab as Peabody beamed, drumming her hands on the seat of her chair in
a quick rhythm. “Departmentally authorized?”
“Yes, sir,” McNab said. “Absolutely, sir. We put in a long night.”
“Make sure she takes a half dose next time.”
“It was the espresso chaser, Commander.”
Whitney shook his head. “That would do it,” he said and strode out.
Peabody let out a giggle, slapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry,” she mumbled behind her fingers. “Not funny.”
Eve said nothing, decided to handle the screen herself. She ran through each crime scene, the evidence, conclusions, progress.
“We’ve found no evidence linking any of the eighteen victims to any of the crimes under investigation. Our links remain Karson to Banks, Banks to the suspects. Banks to Richie. Richie to Denby. Our focus now will be the names on this board who live in Banks’s building.
“You have the profiles, and I’ve assigned interviewees to each team. We have to consider they’re not done. They have another target, one they’ve already researched and may move on at any time. Look for connections to real estate deals.”
“‘Real estate’?” Baxter repeated.
“It’s an angle. Or we might look for anything connected to some innovation about to launch. New tech, for instance. Something or someone who, if taken out, means profit for the suspects. A deal brewing. Something coming out or up soon. They’re on a hot streak. It’s possible—I think low probability, but possible—this moves out of New York. Don’t discount it. Focus on what’s going on here, but don’t discount that.”
She flicked images on the screen. “Karson leaked to Banks, so look at familial, romantic, spousal connections. Information that could be passed, however casually, to someone with a connection to the suspects. Somebody cheating on a spouse or lover can be pressured into giving out information. Look for that.”
She turned off the screen. “Let’s get to it. McNab, you nail that location, I want it.”
“Kiss bye!” Peabody puckered up. McNab gave her a sappy smile—before remembering himself and sending a pleading look toward Eve.
“Detective Peabody! I will personally dump you in the tank and sweat that booster out of you if you don’t maintain.”
The pucker dropped to a pout.
“With me. Now. No ‘kiss bye,’ goddamn it.”
Peabody trotted behind Eve. “I just feel so good! I can’t stop! My brain’s all full of colors!”
“Your body’s covered in them. It makes my eyes throb. Get your coat and cover up the worst of it, then sit down and be quiet. I need to talk to the rest of the squad because people just keep killing people.”
“That makes me sad.”
“Go be sad and quiet at your desk.”
Since her eyes already throbbed, Eve ran through the current caseload with Jenkinson and his psychotic rainbow tie, Reineke and his kittens on Zeus socks.
She shifted to Carmichael and Santiago, caught them up on the Denby arm of the investigation, segued to their current hot—the bludgeoning of a funky-junkie in Battery Park.
By the time she wrapped it up, she assumed Peabody had lost her sad as her partner chair-danced to some internal beat. Sometime in the last fifteen minutes, she had applied a shiny coat of bright pink lip dye.
“Stop jerking off and get your ass up.”
“You bet!”
Eve strode to the door, through it. Then, teeth gritted, went back to see Peabody standing at her desk, all smiles. “Jesus Christ, Peabody. With me.”
“Okeedoke!” She trotted along. “Say, Dallas, have you ever noticed—”
“No. Don’t talk.”
She hummed instead. Eve opted to stick with the miserably crowded elevator all the way down as the noise level drowned out the chemically induced joy.
In the car Eve drew a deep breath. Tried one more. “If you don’t pull it together, I’m going to leave you locked in the car while I conduct interviews.”
“Uh-uh, partners. Ass to work off. I can’t stop!” she added with just a little hint of panic as Eve pulled out. “Part of my brain’s going, Oops, crap, why! But the rest of it’s all happy and everything’s so bright! See look! That woman’s walking a puppy. She has red boots! I like red boots. Aw, I wish we could get a puppy! I’d name her Cuddles, and—Ow!”
Shoulders hunched, Peabody rubbed the arm Eve punched. “I can’t help it.”
“Try harder.”
“See, what happened is we worked really, really late because murders and going to the Oscars. Oh, I want Nadine to win so bad! I can’t wait to see—Ouch!”
“Keep it up and you’ll need body paint to cover the bruises.”
“I’m just saying it’s like we only got two hours down, and then I couldn’t turn my brain off because murders and the Academy freaking Awards! Okay, ouch. But I’m saying everything was just fuzzy this morning, and I needed to give you one hundred percent. A hundred absolute percent. So booster. But then it didn’t feel like it worked. All fuzzy. So I thought about the espresso, and maybe it did work some because it’s crazy stupid to chase the boost with espresso. It’s the real. McNab and I splurged. I love McNab! Ian McNab is my BFF—boyfriend forever! And we—Ow, ow, ow.”
“Stop talking. Stop. I get what happened. I get why it happened, which is why I’m not searching for a blunt instrument to beat you bloody with before I dump your broken body out on the street to be run over by a maxibus.”
“Maybe I should take some Sober Up. It’s not like being drunk, but maybe—”
“No. Nothing else goes in. Except water.” Eve programmed just that from the in-dash. “Drink.”
“I already sort of have to pee.”
“Good, the sooner you flush it out, the better.”
“Where are we going? Can I pee where we’re going?”
“Yes. Drink. Mikhail Kinski, resident of Banks’s building. Age forty-six, former Army, rank captain. Divorced. One hit on domestic violence. Works security for Dobb-Pinkerton Financial.”
Peabody nodded, tapped her temple. “Got it.”
“Good, because we’re there.”
“Really good! Because now I sort of more than sort of have to pee.”
Eve found a second-level street slot. “You put on your cop face, and you zip it. You observe on this one, and that’s it. Unless somebody jabs a spike up your ass, I don’t want to hear anything coming out of your mouth with an exclamation point at the end.”
“That would really hurt.”
“And I can find a spike. Believe it.”
She hoped the short walk, the fresh air and the flushing would bring her partner back.
The lobby looked rich with its towering green marble columns and acres of gold leaf. While Peabody goggled like a damn tourist, Eve ignored the ornate decor, the scores of people—most in black—clipping and striding to and from elevators with their ear-links and micro PPCs.
“There.” Eve pointed toward a sign for restrooms. “Make it fast.”
“Yay.”
As Peabody bounded off to pee, Eve headed straight to the security podium. Held up her badge.
“Where would I find Mikhail Kinski?”
The woman, black-clad, muscular, aimed a suspicious eye at the badge before pulling out a scanner. She seemed a little disappointed when it read green.
“Mr. Kinski is in Security Hub A. You’ll need to be escorted to that level.”
“All right.” Eve stepped back, keeping one eye on the restroom and hoping she didn’t have to go in there and yank Peabody away from primping in the mirror while she sang a happy tune.
Fortunately for her partner’s life expectancy, Peabody came trotting out. She had a big grin plastered on her face, but maybe, just maybe, her eyes were a little less manic.
“The bathroom is swank.”
“Great. Lose the smile.”
Peabody shifted to an exaggerated glower. It might’ve been effective, Eve thought, without the pink lip dye. Still, better than the smile.
Eve watched the man stride of
f a single, secured elevator. She recognized Kinski from his ID shot. A well-built man with close-cropped silver-blond hair, icy blue eyes, and the edgy cheekbones of a Nordic god, he walked with that purposeful stride straight to Eve.
“Badges, please.”
Eve offered hers, elbowed Peabody until she remembered hers. He drew out a mini scanner, verified.
“What can I do for you, Lieutenant, Detective?”
“We can talk about that here in the lobby of your workplace, or we can go somewhere more private.”
“Give me a broad stroke.”
“The murder of Jordan Banks.”
He nodded, one decisive movement, then turned to lead them to the secured elevator.
“We can speak in my office. This will have to be brief. We have a full system test in twenty minutes.”
He used a card swipe and a thumbprint to engage the elevator. The ride down was short and smooth.
They emerged into a short hallway with double doors, fully secured and monitored by cams, at the end. Kinski turned to the left, used the swipe and his print again to open a door into a small, spartan office dominated by double wall screens.
He walked to sit behind a simple desk, gestured at the two metal chairs. “Have a seat. This should be brief as I didn’t know Jordan Banks.”
“You live in the same building, two floors down.”
“So I learned when I read of his murder. There are over eighteen hundred people living in that building, Lieutenant. Do you assume I know all of them?”
“I’m only concerned about Banks.”
“I didn’t know him. I never met him. I may or may not have seen him at some point over the twenty-eight months I’ve lived at that address.”
“That would be shortly after your divorce.”
Kinski’s eyes went to blue stone. “Yes.”
“Can you verify your whereabouts from twenty-one hundred Monday night through oh-four hundred Tuesday morning?”
“I was at home from approximately twenty-one hundred Monday night until oh-six-thirty Tuesday morning.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“I left this building at nineteen hundred hours, walked to Hannigan’s Irish Pub on Forty-First to have dinner with a friend. I left about twenty-thirty and walked home to arrive at approximately twenty-one hundred.”