Leverage in Death--An Eve Dallas Novel

by J. D. Robb

  “So a strike at one or both of the companies,” he concluded, “or the merger itself.”

  “Unless something comes out that leads me otherwise, that’s the direction I’m going. Pearson’s wife, son, and daughter are beneficiaries. I’ll need to interview them.”

  “Understood and expected.”

  “Could you tell me, Commander, if Pearson spoke to you about the merger?”

  “I haven’t seen him since the holidays, though I know Anna and Roz have gotten together a few times since. We rarely talked business, Lieutenant, his or mine. I do know his children. Anna knows them better than I do, but my impression is they’re both bright and dedicated to Quantum. I can help clear the way for the interviews. Tomorrow morning, at their family home?”

  “That would be fine, sir.”

  “I’ll set it up. Keep me informed, Lieutenant. I won’t get in your way.”

  “You’ll have a report from Baxter and Trueheart directly after our briefing. I’ll send you a report of my consult with Roarke as soon as possible.”

  He nodded. “Good hunting. Dismissed.”

  And he turned back to study his city through the glass.

  She opted to swing by EDD before heading to her office and, calculating, headed to the lab first. She passed a few e-geeks in their eye-watering colors and patterns as they bopped their way to and from, but avoided Geek Central as she veered off to the lab.

  There she spotted Feeney, his silver-threaded ginger hair sproinging out in every direction. He’d discarded what she assumed was a shit-brown jacket to go with his shit-brown pants and wore the sleeves of his wrinkled beige shirt rolled up.

  At a station to his left, McNab stood with his long tail of blond hair streaming down a shirt the color you might get if you electrocuted an orange. His skinny hips ticktocked in carnival-striped baggies. On the other side, Callendar perched on a stool in her red baggies and pink polka-dot shirt. Her purple hair bounced as she shook her shoulders and rolled her head side to side.

  Eve rubbed her eyes, then risked them and went through the glass door.

  Despite the hips ticktocking, the shoulders shaking, and Feeney’s cop-shoes tapping, no music played. Just in their heads, Eve thought. What the hell did they hear in there?

  Feeney spotted her, held a finger in the air to hold her off as he used his other hand to swipe and dance over a screen.

  He grunted, turned to her.

  “Got anything?”

  “Got all kinds.” He gave his droopy, basset-hound eyes a quick rub. “Not much that’s going to help right now. Callendar, hit it.”

  “Okay, so it’s like I said on scene. I’ve broken down the security—and it’s mega good. But they sanded off the layers bit by bit. Spent like maybe twenty hours since December wearing it down—that’s just on-site time. Who does that on a residence? Even a nice one?”

  “Somebody who wants in bad enough.”

  “Yeah, that. A lot of work, a lot of time. On the comms inside, they switched them so the residence got incoming, but nobody could do outgoing.”

  “In case one of the captured got to a ’link. Smart. Keep the incoming,” Eve continued, “so they could monitor, deal with anything over the time period that might bring somebody around if unanswered.”

  “You got that. They did get a couple. One tag from the wife’s mom on Saturday—and they texted back how she and the kid were going to the vids and shopping and blah-blah because the husband was locked into work all day. Husband got two tags—work-related. They answered one from his admin—probably because it sounded like he’d just keep tagging. Texted him to—”

  “‘Chill,’” Eve finished. “They were locked on. The admin gave me that.”

  “That’s it. What they did with the second, and to the system—smart, too—is programmed an auto response on how he was switched off until Monday morning. And Sunday night, they texted the contact on the wife’s ’link for the principal at the school saying the kid was sick, so she was keeping her home Monday and sticking with her.”

  “So nobody from the school would wonder or tag or go by on Monday when they didn’t show up. The domestic doesn’t come in on weekends, on Mondays, so they’re clear. But they had to know the schedule to make it work. They watched the house enough to know the routines. What about the house comps?”

  “That’s on McNab.”

  “Yo,” he said, scooting his bony butt onto a stool and swiveling it around. “The wife’s e’s have a lot of school stuff, administrative, like, and correspondence with other administrators, teachers, some parents. Some way bitchy parents, just FYI. She handled them smooth, it strikes me. Stuff for her kid. More correspondence—her family, some pals. Nothing hinky. She kept the household accounts—and nothing out of line there, either. His, work stuff. Most of the work over the last couple months is the flashy deal for the merger. Slogans, digital ads, screen ads, and one’s like a mini-vid. Pretty frosty. Work correspondence, calendars—work and personal. He did a lot of notes to self in his memo book. Lots of photos on his and hers. Mostly family, vacations, holidays. She does some social media, but he didn’t.

  “The kid?” McNab shrugged. “Schoolwork, a few games. Parental controls. Her tablet’s full of books. Must be a big reader, and she leans toward science and science fiction. Social media blocked. Any texting had to go through the parental account. I’m still going down layers, but nothing’s under any so far. SNNTS. Situation Normal, Nothing to See.”

  “I want anything on the merger—the ads, the mail, notes, all of it—copied to my units. Home and office.”

  “Can do.”

  “Feeney?”

  “I started with Rogan’s office e’s. Same as McNab on them. Merger data is priority. Nothing out of line, no correspondence that doesn’t check out, no tags out or in office that doesn’t jibe. Did you see his office memo book?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So you know he planned a party for his team, buying flowers for the wife, taking her and the kid on a long weekend. The guy didn’t leave work on Friday planning to blow himself up on Monday.”

  “No. I just said exactly that to Whitney.”

  “If anybody tried hacking in to access data, it doesn’t show. Moved to his admin’s next. I gotta say, the kid needs a life, and he oughta make a move on this Kimmi he’s got the hots for.”

  “Really?”

  “Comes over,” Feeney said with a shrug. “But he spends most of his time at work or thinking about work. Few personal e-mails—a few friends, his mom—in which he usually mentions this Kimmi, but mostly work-oriented. Not a single damn game. No photos. A lot of reminders to remind his boss, calendars—his and Rogan’s—contacts—office, personal—Rogan’s. Birthdays and anniversaries listed in the personal sections. No sign of hacking, no contacts that read off. And he had a reminder to buy this Kimmi flowers and Rogan a bottle of wine over the weekend for congrats on the campaign. The kid wasn’t just not up to no good, he was up to too much good, you ask me. Needs a life outside work.”

  “Kimmi visited him in the hospital, brought him flowers.”

  “Maybe he’ll make a move there. Anyhow, I started on the big guy’s—Pearson’s. So far, nothing off, but I’ve got a ways to go.”

  “I’m working on getting you toys from Econo.”

  Feeney puffed out his cheeks. “I’m gonna need more boys. You’re looking inside job?”

  “I’m just looking. I’ve got a briefing downstairs. And Roarke’s coming in—not for EDD,” she said quickly. “I need somebody who knows what the fuck about big business mergers.”

  “If he wants to play after the what the fuck, I’ll take him. I’m gonna walk you out. Fizzies?” he asked his geeks.

  “Solid,” they said in unison.

  “So,” Feeney began as they walked out. “You know that Oscar deal’s coming up.”

  “Oscar who?”

  He scratched fingers through his wiry hair. “Jesus, Dallas, even I know about the fricking Oscars. The
vid award thing.”

  “Right. I knew that.” Somewhere, in some corner of her brain.

  “You’re not going?”

  “No.”

  “The Icove vid’s up for a shitload. Nadine’s up for one. Why aren’t you going?”

  Inside her head, she sulked at the question. “I don’t want to. You have to get all fancied up and talk to other fancied-up people, and sit there with them, right? And you have to do it in New L.A. with the media all up in your grill asking idiot questions like: Who are you wearing?”

  “Yeah. I’d want to stun myself first, but it’s a BFD anyway. You know Peabody and McNab got invites to it.”

  “No.” Eve stopped, more than surprised. “Are you sure? Peabody’d be nagging me brainless about it.”

  “I’m sure. I got it from Callendar because McNab’s keeping it down low, too. And I figure they’re not nagging us brainless because we just gave them five days off, and you gave them the place in Mexico to recharge. So they’re not saying anything about it because they don’t want to be greedy assholes.”

  “Okay.”

  He sent her that basset-hound look as he ordered up the fizzies at Vending. “It’s a BFD, kid. Likely a once-in-a-lifetime BFD. I’d be willing to spring McNab for it if you spring Peabody.”

  “We just caught a case with twelve vics. Shit, shit, fuck! When is it?”

  “Sunday.”

  “The what? Like the next one coming?”

  “Yeah, like the next one coming. But Sunday. They could take the weekend, be back Monday if this is still going hot. Tuesday, maybe, if we nail it—because it goes late, I guess. What I’m saying about that admin kid runs true. We gotta have a life. Don’t say anything yet. Give it a day or two.”

  “Fine,” she grumbled as he armed himself with fizzies. “Now I’ve got to ask Roarke, if I decide to spring her, to provide transpo.”

  “You oughta talk to Nadine about that. She’s going, for sure. She’s probably got something lined up they could hitch to.”

  “Maybe. Shit. It’s bad enough she did all this with Icove, now she’s got me reading the manuscript deal she’s done for the Red Horse case.”

  “Yeah? How is it?”

  Eve’s shoulders sagged. “It’s fucking good. I hate that. I’ve gotta go.”

  Oscars, my ass, she thought as she strode away. How was she supposed to think about the freaking Oscars when she had twelve in the morgue? Most of them in pieces.

  She put it aside to worry about later, hopped on a glide. And put her brain in the job.

  She strode into Homicide, blinked once at the bug-eyed multicolored fish on Jenkinson’s virulent blue tie, and kept on going until she hit the comforting dull colors of her office.

  Because the swallow of rat soup still sat uneasy, she locked her door before stepping over to her AutoChef. She programmed an alfalfa power smoothie, her latest hiding place for her candy stash.

  “Son of a bitch!” She pulled out an actual alfalfa power smoothie. “Son of candy-stealing bitch of a bastard!”

  Not only had the nefarious Candy Thief snatched her chocolate, he/she had taken the time and trouble to replace it with the actual item on the freaking menu.

  She had to respect that.

  When she caught the son of a bitching bastard—and she would, oh, she would—she’d hang the thief out her window by the heels. Naked.

  But she’d do so with respect.

  For now, she unlocked her door, programmed black coffee, then set up her book and board.

  To satisfy herself, she started a couple of runs while she updated her notes, requested a search-and-seizure warrant for electronics at Econo’s New York base, and for Willimina Karson’s personal e’s.

  She heard Peabody’s familiar clomp as she finished up. “We’re ready when you are, Dallas.”

  Eve gathered her files. “The Rogan/Greenspan’s domestic’s husband had a ding back when he was sixteen,” she said as they walked. “Underage drinking at an unsupervised party where the kids were stupid enough to get so loud the neighbors called the cops. Otherwise, he’s clean. He’s worked for the same company for twelve years. They live within their means. And a check on Loren Able verifies everything he told us.”

  She walked into the conference room, scanned the board Peabody had set up, approved.

  Baxter and Trueheart sat at the conference table. Trueheart, young and earnest, went over his notes with a tube of ginger ale at his elbow. Baxter, slick in his suit, kicked back with cop coffee in one hand while he studied the board.

  “A lot of players, LT,” Baxter said.

  “There’ll be more to come. I’m getting warrants for Econo. EDD will go through the office data, and Karson’s personal electronics, to start. Pearson’s son and daughter and his wife will be available for interview tomorrow morning. Whitney just informed me his wife and Pearson’s are close friends.”

  Baxter winced. “That’s a not good on top of the already bad.”

  “What have you got?”

  Baxter looked at Trueheart. “Head it up, partner.”

  “Sir, we took statements from a total of thirty-three Quantum employees. The company has three floors of offices at that location, and most had been evacuated when we arrived. Those who’d stayed to help the injured or had come back after the all clear we were able to interview. We’ll follow up with the others.”

  “We focused initially on what we’ll call Ground Zero,” Baxter continued. “Most who weren’t in the conference room did the skedaddle. Can’t blame them. Some came back—loyalty or curiosity. I’m going to say nobody stood out on the first round. Trueheart’s started a standard run on the full list of employees, so we’ll take a closer look once we have the results.”

  “If you knew a bomb was in the building, in the possession of or on the person of an individual under extreme duress, what would you do?”

  “I believe I’d be late for work,” Baxter answered.

  “Let’s find out who wasn’t in the building. Who took a sick day, got there late, had a vacation day scheduled. Or just didn’t show up. Cross-check anyone from Econo who missed the meeting, or was, again, late to arrive.”

  She pushed back from the table, walked to the board. “We’re looking for two unsubs, likely male. Potentially average height, and in fit condition. We have no other description at this time. However, due to a response text to Rogan’s admin, I lean toward at least one of them having some military training. If so, it strikes as most probable some of that training would be in explosives. And/or one or both of the unsubs has a connection to someone who can create a reliable, effective suicide vest or has the ability to build one himself.”

  “Salazar’s good,” Baxter put in. “She should be able to ID some of the components. Bomb builders usually have a style, a signature.”

  “We’ll hope for that.” She looked at Peabody. “You’re up.”

  5

  Shifting, Peabody swiped her notepad. “I ran it through IRCCA for like crimes. Most uses of these vests are political. But we’ve got a few where they were used in robberies. Usually financials. The closest to this is the abduction of a bank employee, two years ago in Chicago. The abductors strapped him into a vest, forced him to enter the bank. The abductors fitted him with an earbud, and held the controls for the vest on remote. Police responded to a silent alarm, surrounded the bank, but the guy relayed the threat that if anyone left the building, they’d blow the vest.”

  “What were the demands?” Eve asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty million wired to a numbered account. After four hours of the standoff, the owner of the bank opted to wire the funds. The guy in the vest? His son-in-law, and the father of two of his grandchildren. Once the transfer went through, the robbers contacted the hostage negotiator directly, told him thanks. They cleared the bank, the bomb squad deactivated the vest.”

  “They didn’t go boom,” Baxter commented.

  “No, and they didn’t get away with it, either. The bank
guy, however scared shitless, paid attention. They wore masks, but they sealed up instead of wearing gloves. He caught a tat on the left wrist of the guy who strapped him into the vest.”

  “Oh, those identifying marks,” Baxter said with a grin.

  “Yeah. Prison tat. And though the second one didn’t say much, the guy recognized his voice. Worked in the bank—and had a brother who’d done time. They tracked down the third guy—the bomb maker—on a beach in Mexico. Bomb signature.

  “Anyway, it’s not similar except for the use of the vest and the abduction. Though they snatched the guy on his way to work, strapped him up, sent him in after slapping him around a little.”

  “And they didn’t get away with it,” Eve added, studying the board. “Only morons don’t learn from their mistakes or the mistakes of others. No identifying marks, no direct connection to the tool you intend to use. Make him responsible—and make sure it blows. Any more like it?”

  “Well, a couple where the bad guys used a dupe like this. We had one in New York about twenty years back, but the bomb went off during negotiations. Faulty switch. Another in Vegas where some bystander tackled the dupe, and boom. Every one I found that wasn’t political was motivated by straight cash, and I didn’t find one that worked.”

  “It’s interesting.” Eve walked up and down in front of the board. “Here you have two guys. Could’ve been more who stayed out of sight or never came into the house, but let’s go with two. Two’s smarter, less chance of mistakes or rivalry or leaks. They don’t snag a bank employee—though those assholes played a smart card by grabbing somebody who mattered to the main money guy. They don’t rush it through. Grab, strap, go. They take some time, create fear, layers and layers of it because they’re going to put the control in the victim’s hand.”

  “What if he couldn’t do it?” Trueheart asked. “If, even with his family on the line, he couldn’t pull the trigger?”

  “They lose the time and effort, but they walk away. They had to have him wired so they’d know what he was doing.”

  Stepping to the board, she tapped Melody’s photo. “The kid said they made her call for him, scream for him into a ’link. Record that, play that through an earpiece. And still, if he balks, they walk. Maybe they kill the family, maybe they don’t, but they walk. Mission abort.”