by J. D. Robb
“Start running any and all private shuttles booked or alerted for flight prep since the media conference. Let’s start running high-dollar condos, Upper East, riverview, fancy lobby, doorman.”
“With a terrace,” Callendar called out. “I’ve got them having drinks on her terrace—facing east. He can see Roosevelt Island.”
“She can’t help him,” Teasdale pointed out. “If she tries, we’ll have her. If she doesn’t we still have him. HSO will certainly use all resources to locate her, but I don’t understand the urgency.”
“She’s got the formula.”
“I suspect she’s had it all along, or enough of it with this much time, and the financial backing, she certainly could have created and used it before this.”
“We’ve just given her a reason to use it.”
“For him?” Teasdale shook her head. “I don’t believe she has that much sentiment in her.”
“Menzini’s dead. The daughter’s useless to her. Nothing to her. But the grandson? He’s her legacy. He’s shown her, twice, he has Menzini in him. She can’t get to him, so she’s going to want payback. Shit, shit!” Eve yanked out her ’link. “Weaver and Vann. Maybe she’ll want to finish what he started.”
She got Weaver’s voice mail, left an urgent message, but managed to reach Vann.
“Lieutenant. We heard about Lew. I can’t believe—”
“Where are you?” she demanded.
“At home. We closed the offices, and—”
“Stay there. Don’t answer the door until my officers get there.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to. Stay inside, door secure. Where’s Weaver?”
“I’m not sure. She was upset, naturally. I assume she went home.”
“Stay inside,” she repeated, then tagged Jenkinson. “Get over to Stevenson Vann’s apartment. Keep it in lockdown until I say different. Nobody in, nobody out. Send Sanchez and Carmichael over to Nancy Weaver’s. If she’s home, keep her there. If she’s not, I need to know. Go now.”
She went straight to Whitney when he came inside. “I need Mira and Reo secured. As well as Chief Tibble and yourself, sir. Gina MacMillon may target the people who took down her grandson.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“What do we know about her?” Eve demanded. “Attractive woman in her late seventies, early eighties. Wealthy. Patient. Jesus, she’s like a spider. A trained soldier. More, a kind of operative. Could she have made contact with Menzini while he was alive?”
“I can’t say.” Again, Teasdale looked mildly distressed. “I would doubt it.”
“Why wasn’t he executed? They still did that back then. He was a war criminal, a mass murderer, a child abductor, a rapist. Name it.”
“My guess? He was useful.”
“Making chemical and bio weapons?”
“It’s possible. His mind was twisted, but he had brilliance in certain areas.”
“Enough he’d have found a way to get word to her. To keep the fire going. The world didn’t end, but that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Or shift focus. He made his living selling chem weapons. Maybe that’s how she makes hers.”
Teasdale’s face lit. “I’ll start a search for known dealers in her age span.”
“Bugger that.” Roarke sat back, pulled the tie out of his hair. “I’ve got her.”
“How? Jesus.” Eve all but leaped on him. “Let me see.”
“There was a painting in Callaway’s office. The only piece of any taste or style in the whole place. It struck me at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. It took me some time, but I found it. On screen.”
Eve frowned at the image of long, flower-decked steps, a fountain at their feet. They led to an old building, looked European to her.
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s the Spanish Steps, in Rome.”
“Menzini hit Rome, and was taken there.”
“So I recalled, a bit belatedly. This painting was done just prior to the war, by an Italian artist who died in Menzini’s attack.”
“Too much coincidence, and coincidence is bogus.”
“So I thought. I’ve managed to track the owner through insurance. It’s a very nice piece, and part of a collection. Owned by Gina M. Bellona. Bellona is the ancient Roman goddess of war. On screen.”
“There she is,” Eve murmured.
Attractive, yes. Strong bones, smoothly covered by olive skin, a sweep of dark hair liberally, artistically streaked with silver. It listed her as the widow of a Carlo Corelli.
“Find out what happened to Carlo Corelli,” she ordered Peabody when her partner came back in. “And do it on the move. We’ve got a fucking New York address. Upper East Side—good call there, Callendar. Teasdale, I’d like you to stay back, monitor any transmissions Callaway requests to make. And use whatever magic you have to locate any private transportation she may have, and have gearing up. If she’s trying to poof, let’s block her.”
“I’ll make sure of it. And have a biohazard team in place at her condo.”
“Set it up, but hold them back until we get there. You can freeze her accounts faster than we can. Do that.”
“Consider it done.”
“I’m ordering a SWAT team,” Whitney said. “I want that building secure.”
“Yes, sir. I’m going to pull in Baxter and Trueheart. I think that’s enough to take down one old lady.”
“You’ll have one more. I’m with you, Lieutenant,” Roarke told her.
“You earned it. Let’s move out.”
21
Eve worked as she went, her mind clicking through steps and strategies. “Peabody, keep digging on Gina Bellona. I want to know if she has any other homes, properties, and if so, we want the locals there to obtain warrants for search and seizure. I want any and all vehicles—ground, air, water. I want relatives, employment or businesses. I want the names of her frigging pets.”
She pulled out her own ’link, grateful that for once the elevator had a little breathing room. “Reo,” she began without preamble when the APA came on screen. “Are you and Mira secured?”
“Yes, we’re in the conference room. What—”
“Don’t talk, listen. I need a warrant, now, for the homes, businesses, and vehicles of Gina Bellona, aka Gina MacMillon. We’re on our way to her primary New York residence, and we’re going in with or without the warrant. Make it clean, Reo. She’s an imminent threat to the people and properties of New York. If she gets out of the city, she will be an imminent threat globally.”
“You’ll have it.”
“Save time, use the conference room ’link. Put Mira on.”
“Eve,” Mira began when they switched ’links.
“Is Mr. Mira at home?”
“He’s teaching an evening class at Columbia. He—”
“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry. I need you to go down to Callaway. I need you to keep him busy, talking, distracted. Say nothing about the grandmother. You know what to do, what to say. Just keep him occupied. I don’t want him contacting or trying to contact MacMillon before, during, or after the bust.”
“I understand.” Mira’s voice remained calm, but fear lived in her eyes. “Do you think she would try to hurt my family?”
“She hasn’t had time to do anything about it, but I’ll make sure they’re all protected. I promise you. She needs time and space to plan, to research. We’re not going to give it to her. But we won’t take chances. Get to Callaway.”
She clicked off, started to use her ’link again to order protection details. Roarke laid a hand on her arm.
“It’s done.” He moved off the elevator with her into the garage. “Private security, Mira’s family, Peabody and McNab’s apartment, Reo’s, and so on.”
“It should be cops.” Then she took a breath. “Thanks.”
“One less thing for you and the department to worry about.”
“Okay.” And she set it aside. “Get me t
he layout of the condo—floor plan, exits, security. I’ll drive, we’re going hot until we’re close, then we’ll turn off the sirens.”
“Hot’s my favorite thing.”
Peabody had a chance for one quick gulp before Eve tore out of the garage.
“Gina Bellona,” she began. “In addition to her condo here, she has a home in London, a flat in Paris, and a villa in Sardinia. Her husband, deceased, was knighted for his contribution to science and humanitarian works.”
“Science,” Eve repeated while she punched vertical and zipped over a knot of traffic.
“Carlo Corelli—Brit mother, Italian father, dual citizenship, a scientist, primary work molecular chemistry. His father was one of the founders of Biotech Industries.”
“One of the leaders in the field,” Roarke told her while he worked. “Innovations and development of synthetic organs, cancer vaccines, fertility, auto-immune research. They’ve built health centers in areas where medicine and health care was a luxury or simply nonexistent.”
“Pharmacology—lots of drug research.”
“No question.”
“Perfect for her. How’d he buy it, Peabody—Corelli?”
“Slipped in the shower seven months ago.”
“About the time Teasdale says Menzini died. I bet Corelli had help in the shower.”
“Death ruled accidental, but it looks like his first wife and his children made some noise about the widow. I can probably find some dish on it in the scandal sheets.”
“Marries him, gets rich, gets access to all the drugs she wants—and some expertise. Menzini dies, and she’s done with Corelli. Wants this tribute, or revenge, or whatever the hell. She takes Corelli out, inherits, moves to New York.”
“Where she lives in a spacious, two-level condo,” Roarke put in. “Private elevator into a foyer. Secondary entrance/exit on south corner. Additional on second level, central. Video security, all entrances. There’s also an interior elevator. Terraces off first and second levels, roof terrace on second level. She’s on Fifty-two and Three, southeast corner.”
“What else is up there?”
“Three other units—one at each corner.” He continued to work quickly, coolly, while Eve drove like a lunatic. “A central elevator, a maintenance/housekeeping area with service elevators. Three stairways—north and south and in the maintenance area.”
“Got it. Peabody, send Reo the info on MacMillon’s properties.”
“She’s also got a limo and town car here in New York, as well as a private shuttle.” A small “Eek!” escaped Peabody as the car threaded through snarled traffic. “An all-terrain in Sardinia—and a yacht—town cars in London and Paris. Biotech’s got a branch here, a complex on Long Island, and a facility on Park. Oh, another in Jersey City.”
“Get her all of it. Get warrants. Have her reach out to the European locals. She can add HSO’s and Tibble’s weight to get it moving. I want all her vehicles located and impounded.”
“Oh shit. Okay,” Peabody muttered prayers as they leapfrogged over a trio of Rapid Cabs. “McNab’s already located the shuttle, he’s keeping me up. We’re on that.”
“Box her in,” Eve stated, cutting the sirens, gliding the rest of the way.
“I think I just lost five pounds in fear sweat.” Peabody mopped at her face. “Now I want a cannoli. I don’t know why.”
With a laugh, Roarke shifted to grin at her. “I’ll buy you a dozen, precious.”
“Cannolis, for God’s sake.” Eve pulled into the loading zone in front of the building. The doorman, spiffy in red and gold, mistook the DLE for a piece of crap and hotfooted over.
“You can’t—”
“I can.” Eve pulled out her badge as she pushed open the car door.
“What’s this—”
“I ask; you answer. Gina Bellona. Is she in her condo?”
“Ms. Bellona? She hasn’t come out or ordered her car. What’s—”
“How long have you been on the door today?”
“Going onto five hours. I’d’ve seen her if she’d come out. I opened the door for her myself about three hours ago when she came back from shopping.”
“Okay. The other tenants on her levels. Are they in?”
“The Cartwrights are in Africa, doing a safari thing. Mr. Bennett hasn’t come in yet, and Mrs. Bennett and the boy went out about an hour ago. Mr. Jasper just went up. His wife and kids are up there.”
“Which unit?”
“Fifty-two-oh-four.” His eyes widened as three black-and-whites and two SWAT vehicles roared up. “What’s the deal? Jesus.”
“Peabody, if you’ve finished dreaming of cannolis, have Curtis here take you to the building manager, get this started.” She moved toward the SWAT commander. “Lowenbaum.”
“Dallas. Cold night.”
“It’s about to heat up.” She’d worked with him before, knew him to be steady and smart. Like his men, he wore black body armor, a helmet, and carried a long-range blaster. His eyes, a deceptively mild gray, scanned the building. “Have you analyzed the floor plans?”
“Done and done.” He pulled out some gum—she remembered, for some reason, he preferred blueberry—offered it. When she shook her head he folded a piece into his mouth, then took out his tablet.
They huddled over the floor plans.
“My e-guy here’s going to take out her security,” Eve told him. “Once your team’s secured the entrance, I need you to hold.”
She pulled out her ’link, printed out the warrant. “We’re a go there. There’s a biohazard team en route, but I’m not waiting on them. Have your coordinator send them in, the minute they arrive.”
“We’ve got mouth-breathers. You want?”
“They leave a bad taste in my mouth.”
“Tell me.” He nodded, tapped his earpiece. “My man says we’re having trouble with eyes and ears. She’s got it shielded.”
“Here’s the deal, Lowenbaum. My team’s going in, the team you select comes in behind us, helps us clear. She went in prior to the media report, and hasn’t come out this way. If she’s in there, we apprehend, incapacitate if necessary.”
She hesitated a moment. “You know me, right?”
He grinned at her. “Used to think maybe I’d know you better, but that didn’t happen.” He turned his grin to Roarke. “She wouldn’t give me the green.”
Roarke grinned back at him.
“You could say I took my shot.”
“Jesus.” Eve shook her head. “I’d like you on the clear team, and if I tell you to stun me and my people, do it.”
“That’s … unusual.”
“Maybe, but do it. Every room we go in, we open doors and windows. Blast them out if they’re sealed. I’ll get back to you.” She turned, moved fast to meet up with Baxter and Trueheart. “They’ve got mouth-breathers. You may want.”
“You carry around that crappy aftertaste for hours,” Baxter complained.
“Your choice. We take the central elevator. Roarke, take down her private. Trueheart, you head to Five-two-oh-four, get the family inside out and down. Baxter, you and Peabody go in from Fifty-three, clear it, open all windows and doors. If she’s up there, secure her, or take her down. Roarke and I go in on Fifty-two. Lowenbaum has men covering the terraces, moving now to secure all exits.”
“One old lady, right? A grandmother. Mine still makes the world’s best apple pie.”
“She’s nobody’s pie-making granny. Let’s go.”
Lowenbaum’s men had the lobby secure, and empty. Roarke shut down elevators one by one as teams reported positions.
“You don’t have body armor, LT.” Trueheart started to remove his own to give her.
“Keep it. I’ve got a magic coat.”
As Trueheart started to speak, Peabody nodded at him. “Seriously. She does.”
“Okay, cut the chatter.” She stepped off with Trueheart and Roarke into a white and gold foyer, pointed at the ceiling before the doors shut on Peabody, Baxter,
and the other men. Pointed Trueheart in the direction of 5204. She shook her head when a SWAT guy stepped forward with a battering ram, pointed to Roarke.
He studied the locks as he drew out his picks.
Lowenbaum grinned again when the locks quietly gave way.
Again she nodded at Roarke, then held up three fingers. Two. One.
They hit the door hard. She went low, Roarke high, splitting off as SWAT rushed in behind them. “Get those terrace doors open!” She’d cleared the living area before she spotted the droid on the floor of a wide dining room.
She could smell the electrical burn in the air, noted the fried circuits spilling out of the back of the head of what had been a domestic droid.
Too late, she thought. They were too late. And she saw the proof of it when she, leading with her weapon, moved into a large kitchen done in soft green and golds.
She hadn’t bothered to tidy up, Eve noted, but had left the burners and tubes, the conductors and jars in plain view.
She’d been cooking—and she hadn’t made any damn pies.
She heard the calls of “Clear!” ringing out. Yeah, it’s clear, she thought. She’s cleared out, and taken her poison with her.
Roarke came in behind her. “I count two droids, both with their circuits destroyed. An empty safe, left open.”
“She left this out for us to find. A big fuck-you.” She shoved her weapon back in its holster. “She’s got money, fake ID, and I’m damn sure the means and contacts to change her face. She’s either out of the city, or holed up until she can shift appearance and ID.”
“Maintenance exit,” Roarke concluded. “She slipped out that way. Either undetected or she greased a palm or two on the way.”
“Her shuttle’s locked down. She can’t get out that way.” She yanked out her ’link. “McNab, have you located MacMillon’s other vehicles?”
“We have both locked, Dallas. What—”
“She’s blown. Hold. Alert your security on the families and apartments,” Eve told Roarke. “We’re going to go over every inch of this place. McNab, I need men on all Biotech facilities in New York and New Jersey. Get e-men on it, check all security discs for any sighting of the suspect. She’s to be considered armed and dangerous.”