by J. D. Robb
He honked out a little laugh. "Fresh." He tapped some keys and had squiggles and swirls in bold reds, yellows, blues, filling a comp screen. "No indication the sample had been stored, cold-boxed, flash-frozen, thawed or rehydrated."
He tapped again, brought up another screen of shapes and colors. "Coagulation rate and temp says it hit the air about two hours - maybe a little more - before I tested it. That's consistent with the time it took to get here."
"Concluding the sample came out of a live human, and came out of said human between one and two this afternoon."
"What I said. A Neg, human blood, healthy platelets, cholesterol, no STD. We filtered out trace portions of other body fluid and flesh. Double X chromosomes."
"Female."
"You bet. We'll keep separating other body fluids when we have the larger samples, and the sweepers tell me they've got some hair in there. We'll be able to tell you pretty much everything. Fluids, flesh and hair." He grinned widely. "I could freaking rebuild her with samples like that."
"Nice thought. DNA."
"I'm running it through. Takes some time, and there's no guarantee she's on the grid. Might get a relative. I programmed for full match and blood relations."
Thorough, Eve thought. When Dickhead got his weird little teeth into something, he was thorough. "There were fibers."
"Like I said, we'll separate and filter. I'll give hair and fiber to Harpo. She's the queen. But I can't pull the vic's ID out of my ass. She's either on the grid or - Hey!" He swiveled, scooted as the far comp beeped. "Son of a bitch, we got a match. I am so freaking good."
Eve came around the counter to study the ID photo and data herself. "Copy to my unit," she ordered. "And I want a printout. Dana Buckley, age forty-one, born in Sioux City, why are you dead?"
"Nice-looking skirt," Berenski commented, and Eve ignored him.
Blue-eyed blonde, she thought, pale skin, pretty in a corn-fed sort of way. Five-six, a hundred thirty-eight, parents deceased, no sibs, no offspring, no marriage or cohab on record. "Current employment, freelance consultant. What does this personal data tell us smart investigators, Detective?"
"That the deceased has no family ties, no employer to verify identification or give further data on said deceased. Which makes a smart investigator go hmmm."
"It does indeed. She lists a home and office address here in New York. Park Avenue. Peabody, run this down."
"It's the Waldorf," Roarke said from behind her.
"As in Astoria?" Eve glanced back, caught his nod, and the look in his eyes when they met hers.
She thought, Crap, but said nothing. Not yet.
"Check and see if they have her registered," she told Peabody. "And get a copy of the ID print, show it to the desk staff to see if they make her. Quick work, Berenski."
"After quick work, I like to relax with a good bottle or two of wine."
She took the printout and walked away without a second glance.
"Worth the shot," Berenski said at her back.
"There's nobody by the name of Dana Buckley registered at the Waldorf," Peabody told her as she caught up to Eve. "No make from the desk staff. This new data rates a second hmmm."
"Go back to Central, do a full run on her. You can start on the security discs. Send copies to my home unit. I'm going to swing by, reinterview Carolee, show her the printout. Maybe she'll remember seeing the vic."
"We were lucky to get a DNA match that fast. I'll tag you if I dig up anything on her." She sent a quick smile to Roarke. "See you later."
Eve waited until she and Roarke were in her vehicle, with her taking the wheel. "You knew her."
"Not really. Of her, certainly. It's complicated."
"Is there any way you could be connected to this?"
"No. That is, I have no connection to her."
Eve felt the knot in her stomach begin to loosen. "How do you know her, or of her?"
"I first heard of her some years ago. We were working on a prototype for some - at the time - new holo technology. It was very nearly stolen, or would have been if we hadn't implemented multiple layers of security. As it was, she got through several before the red flag."
"Corporate and/or technological espionage."
"Yes. I didn't know her as Dana Buckley, but as Catherine Delauter. I expect you'll find any number of IDs before you're done."
"Who does she work for?"
He lifted a shoulder in a dismissive if elegant shrug. "The highest bidder. She thought I might be interested in her services, and arranged to meet me. That's seven or eight years ago."
"Did you hire her?"
He glanced at Eve with mild exasperation. "Why would I? I don't need to steal - and if I did, I could do it myself, after all. I wasn't interested in her services, and made it plain. Not only because I don't - never did - steal ideas. It's low and common."
Eve shook her head. "Your moral compass continues to baffle me."
"As yours does me. Aren't we a pair? But I warned her off not only for that, but because she was known - and my own research confirmed - not only as a spy but an assassin."
Eve glanced over quickly before she pushed through traffic. "A corporate assassin?"
"That would depend on the highest bidder, from what I learned. She's for hire, or apparently was, and didn't quibble at getting her hands bloody. Peabody won't find any of this in her run. A large percentage of her work, if rumor holds, has been for various governments. The pay's quite good, particularly if you don't mind a bit of throat slitting."
"A techno spy, heavy into wet work, takes a ride on the ferry. And ends up not just dead, but missing. A competitor? Another kill for hire? It struck me as a pro job, even - maybe because - it was so damn messy and complicated. It's going to get buckets of media when the rest of the data leaks. Who would want that?"
"A point proven?" He shrugged again. "I couldn't say. Was the body dumped off the ferry?"
"I don't think so." She filled him in as she wound and bullied her way to the East Side. "So, as far as I can tell, he moved the body and the wit, in full view of dozens, maybe hundreds of people. And nobody saw anything. The wit doesn't remember anything."
"I'll have to ask the obvious. You're sure there were no escape routes in the room?"
"Unless we've got a killer who can shrink to rat size and slither down a pipe, we didn't find any. Maybe he popped into a vortex."
Roarke turned, grinned. "Really?"
Eve waved it away. "Peabody's Free-Age suggestion. Hell, maybe he waved his magic wand and said, 'Hocus pocus.' What?" she said when Roarke frowned.
"Something . . . in the back of my mind. Let me think about it."
"Before you think too hard?" She veered into the health center's lot. "Just let me point out there is no magic wand, or rabbit in the hat, or alternate reality."
"Well, in this reality, most people notice when a dead body's paraded around under their noses."
"Maybe it didn't look like one. They have a couple of maintenance hampers on board. The killer dumps the body in, wheels it out like it's just business as usual. And no, we haven't found any missing hampers, or any trace in the couple on board. But it's a logical angle."
"True enough." Once she'd parked, he got out of the car with her. "Then again, logic would say don't kill in a room with only one out, and a public one, don't take the body, and don't leave a witness. So, it may be hard to hold to one logical line when the others are badly frayed."
"They're only frayed logic until you find the reason and motive." Eve pulled out her badge as they walked into the health center.
The Grogans crowded into a tiny little room with Carolee sitting up in bed, a bouquet of cheerful flowers in her lap. She looked tired, Eve thought, and showed both strain and resignation when she saw Eve come in.
"Lieutenant. I've been poked and prodded, screened and scanned and scoped. All over a bump on the head. I know something bad happened, something awful, but it really doesn't have anything to do with me."
; "You still don't remember anything?"
"No. Obviously I hit my head, and I must've been dazed for a while." Her hand snuck from under the flowers to reach for her husband's. "I'm fine now, really. I feel fine now. I don't want the boys to spend their vacation in a hospital room."
"It's just a few hours," Steve assured her. The youngest, whose name was Pete, Eve remembered, crawled onto the bed to sit at his mother's side.
"Still. I'm sorry someone was hurt. Someone must've been hurt, from what Steve said. I wish I could help, I really do. But I don't know anything."
"How's the head?"
"It pounds a little."
"I have a photo I'd like to show you." Eve offered the printout of Dana Buckley. "Do you recognize her? Someone you might've seen on the ferry."
"I don't think . . ." She lifted her hand to worry at the bandage on the forehead. "I don't think . . ."
"There were a lot of people." Steve angled his head to look at the photo. "We were looking out at the water most of the time." He glanced with concern toward the monitor as his wife's pulse rate jumped. "Okay, honey, take it easy."
"I don't remember. It scares me. Why does it scare me?"
"Don't look at it anymore." Will snatched the photo away. "Don't look at it, Mom. Don't scare her anymore." He thrust the photo back at Eve. "She was in the picture."
"Sorry?"
"The lady. Here." He pulled a camera out of his pocket. "We took pictures. Dad let me take some. She's in the picture." He turned the camera on, scrolled back through the frames. "We took a lot. I looked through them when they had Mom away for tests. She's in the picture. See?"
Eve took the camera and looked at a crowd shot, poorly cropped, with Dana Buckley sitting on a bench sipping from a go-cup. With a briefcase in her lap.
"Yeah, I see. I need to keep this for a while, okay? I'll get it back to you."
"You can keep it, I don't care. Just don't scare my mom."
"I don't want to scare your mother. That's not why I'm here," Eve said, directly to Carolee.
"I know. I know. She - that's the one who was hurt?"
"Yes. It upsets you to see her photo."
"Terrifies me. I don't know why. There's a light," she said after a hesitation.
"A light?"
"A bright flash. White flash. After I see her picture, and I'm scared, so scared. There's a white flash, and I can't see anything. Blind, for a minute. I . . . It sounds crazy. I'm not crazy."
"Shh." Pete began to stroke her hair. "Shh."
"I'm going to speak to the doctor. If Carolee's clear, I want to get her and our boys back to the hotel. Away from this. We'll get room service." Steve winked over at Will. "In-room movies."
"God, yes," Carolee breathed. "I'll feel better once we're out of here."
"Let's go find the doctor," Eve suggested and sent a glance at Roarke. He nodded, and moved to the foot of the bed as Steve went out with Eve.
"So, Mrs. Grogan, where would you be staying here in New York?"
It took another thirty minutes, but Roarke asked no questions until they were out of the health center. "And so, how is the lady?"
"I had the doctor dumb it down for me. He was giving it to the husband - he's a doctor, too - in fancier terms."
"You can keep it dumbed down for me."
"She's good," Eve told him, "no serious or lasting damage. The contusion, mild concussion, and most interestingly what he dumbed down to a 'smudge' on her optic nerves—both eyes. He seemed to be pushing for another test, but he’d already done a recheck and as the smudge was already dissipating, I don’t think Steve’s going to go for it. Added to it, the brain scan showed something wonky in the memory section—a blip, but that’s resolved, too, on retest. Her tox is clear," Eve added as she got back into the car. "No trace of anything, which is too damn bad, as that’s where logic was leading me."
"A memory suppressor would've been logical. And may be yet." He shook his head at her look. "We'll have some things to check into when we get home. You'll likely have to follow up with the Grogans?"
"Yeah."
"Then you'll find them at the Palace. They'll be moving there tonight."
"Your hotel?"
"It seems they're a bit squeezed into a room at the moment, and it struck me they could use a bit of an upgrade for their troubles. Plus the security's better there. Considerably."
"I'm putting a watch on them," Eve began, then shrugged. "It is better." She engaged the 'link to update her men on the change. "Let's go home and start 'checking into.' "
Six
Summerset, Roarke's man about everything, wasn't lurking in the grand foyer when Eve walked in. She spied the fat cat, Galahad, perched on the newel post like a furry gargoyle. He blinked his bicolored eyes twice, then leaped down with a thud to saunter over and rub against her legs.
"Where's Mr. Macabre?" Eve asked as she scratched the cat between the ears.
"Stop." Roarke didn't bother to sigh. The pinching and poking between his wife and his surrogate father were not likely to end anytime soon. "Summerset's setting things up in my private office. We need to use the unregistered equipment," he continued when she frowned. "Any serious digging on your victim is going to send up flags to certain parties. And there's more."
He took her hand to lead her up the steps.
"If I don't dig into the vic through proper channels, it's going to look very strange."
"You have Peabody on that," he reminded her. "And you can do some of your own, for form. But you won't find what you're after through legitimate channels. Set up your runs, on Buckley, the Grogans, the possible causes of this optic smudge. All the things you'd routinely do. Then come up and meet me."
He lifted her hand to kiss her fingers. "And we'll do the real excavating. She's a freelance spy and assassin, Eve, who works for the highest bidder or on a whim. That work would definitely include certain areas of the U.S. government. You won't get far your way."
"What's the "What's the 'more'?" She hated the cloak-and-dagger crap. "You said there's more?"
But he shook his head. "Start your runs. We'll go over what I've heard, know, suspect."
Since there was no point in wasting time, Eve walked into her home office to set up the multiple runs and searches. She sent an e-m ail to Dr. Mira, the NYPSD's top profiler and psychiatrist, to ask about the validity of mass hypnosis. It made her feel foolish, but she wanted a solid opinion from a source she respected.
Before compiling and updating her notes, she checked in with Peabody, and read over all the initial lab and sweepers' reports. No witnesses had come forward to claim they'd seen anything unusual, including any individual transporting a dead body. Which was too bad, she mused. Also in the too-bad department was the report that the pipes and vents within the crime scene were just too damn small to have served as an escape route.
Solid walls, no windows, one door, she decided. And that meant, however improbably, both killer and victim had exited through the door.
He hadn't stepped into Peabody's vortex, hadn't employed an alien transporter beam or flourished a magic wand. He'd used the damn door. She just had to figure out how.
She made her way to Roarke's private office, used the palm pad and voice recognition to enter. He sat behind the U-shaped console with the jewel-toned buttons and controls winking over the slick black surface. The privacy screens shielded the windows and let the evening sunlight filter into the room in a pale gold wash. A small table stood by those windows, set with silver domed plates, an open bottle of wine, the sparkle of crystal.
His idea of a working dinner, she mused.
He'd already tied his hair back - serious work mode - and commanded keyboard and touch screens with rapid movements.
"What are you hacking into?" she asked.
"Various agencies. CIA, Homeland Security, Interpol, MI5, Global, EuroCom, and that sort."
"Is that all?" She pressed her fingers to her eyes. "I was going to stick with coffee, but now I think I need a d
rink."
"Pour me one. And after I get these to auto-search, I'll tell you a story over dinner."
She poured two, pleased the wine was red, which lowered the chances of something healthy like fish with steamed vegetables on the plates. She peeked under the silver cover and was instantly cheered. "Hey, lasagna!" Then, on closer study. "What's this green stuff in there?"
"Good for you."
"Why is good for you mostly green? Why can't they make it taste like candy or at least pizza?"
"I'm going to get my R and D right on that. And we're going to speak of R and D, as it happens. There now." He sat back, nodded at his screens. "We'll see what we see." He rose, crossed to her. Taking up his glass, he tapped it to hers, then smiled. "I think I'll have another of these," he decided, and cupped her chin before taking her mouth with his.
"No distracting with wine and lip-locks," she ordered. "I want to get to the bottom of this. The whole thing is . . . irritating."
"I imagine it is, to someone of your logical bent." He gestured for her to sit, then settled across from her. "Your victim," he began, "was a dangerous woman. Not in an admirable way. Not like you, for instance. She fought for nothing, stood for nothing, save her own gain."
"You said you didn't really know her."
"This is what I know of her. It's not the first time I've looked into her, which will make tonight's work a bit easier on that score. Information on her is, naturally, sketchy, but I believe she was born in Albania, the result of a liaison between her American mother and an unknown father. Her mother served in the U.S. Diplomatic Corps. She traveled with her mother extensively, saw and learned quite a bit of the world. It seems she was recruited, at a young age, by a covert group, World Intelligence Network."
"WIN?"
"Which was exactly their goal. To win data, funds, territories, political positions - however it was most expedient. They only lasted a decade. But in that decade, they trained her, and as she apparently showed considerable ability and no particular conscience, used her in their Black Moon sector."
"Wet work."
"Yes." He broke a hunk of bread in two, passed her a share. "Somewhere along the line, she opted to freelance. It's more lucrative, and she'd have seen WIN was fragmenting. She tends to take high-dollar jobs, private or government. As I said, I had a brush with her several years ago. I believe, two years after that, she killed three of my people in an attempt to acquire the data and research to new fusion fuel we had under development."