by J. D. Robb
“That’s ridiculous. Why would I order a limo for a woman I don’t even know?”
“That’s a question,” Eve said.
Irritation increased enough to smother the bafflement. “When was it booked?” He snapped out the question. “What card was supposedly used?”
When Eve told him, he took a moment before speaking. “That’s my company card. I use that transpo service routinely for both business and personal, but I know neither I nor my admin reserved transportation for tonight.”
“Let’s get this part out of the way. Where were you between ten P.M. and one A.M.?”
“Foster?”
The pretty woman wore a man’s robe miles too big for her. Her short, bark-colored hair fell to her jaw. Like Urich, she hadn’t thought to comb it.
“I’m sorry. I got worried.”
“It’s all right, Julia. It’s just some sort of mix-up. Julia and I spent the evening together.” His color came up again. “I, ah, picked her up about seven-forty-five. We had an eight o’clock at Paulo’s. Then we, ah, came back here. I don’t remember the time.”
“It was a little after ten,” Julia supplied. “We’ve been in since. What’s happened?”
He walked to her, ran a hand down her arm. “Someone’s been killed.”
“Oh, no! Who?”
“I don’t know her, but there’s some confusion about the use of my company card. I need to straighten it out. I can’t think straight,” he added. “I’m going to make some coffee.”
“I’ll do it. No, I’ll do it, Foster. You sit down. Would you like coffee?” she said to Eve and Peabody.
“That’d be great,” Eve answered.
“Foster, sit down with the police. I’ll just be a minute.”
“Sorry,” he said when Julia went out. “Sit down. This has just thrown me off. I don’t know how my company account could’ve been used. We change the code every couple of weeks.”
Eve took the ID photo out of her bag. “Do you recognize her?”
He took a good look at the picture, then scooped back his untidy hair and took another, longer study before he shook his head. “No. And I don’t think that’s a face I’d forget. She’s beautiful. Coney Island, you said,” he added when he handed the photo back.
“Yes. You’ve been there.”
He smiled. “I’ve taken my daughter there several times since it reopened. She’s going to be nine next month. I’m divorced,” he said quickly. “Her mother and I have been divorced for several months.”
“Understood. Do you know an Augustus Sweet?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a familiar name. I meet a lot of people, Officer—”
“Lieutenant.”
“Sorry, yes, Lieutenant Dallas. In my work . . . You already know what I do, where I work. You’d have checked.”
“Yes. Who’d have access to your account information?”
“My admin. Della McLaughlin. She’s worked with me for over fifteen years. She wouldn’t be involved in this. Her assistant, Christian Gavin, would also have the information, but I have to say the same. He’s been with us nearly eight years. Julia.” He smiled again when she came back with a tray, and rose to take it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She stood as he set down the tray. “Should I go?”
“No, please. Lieutenant, I need to go put a block on that account, and initiate a search for use. I may be able to tell you who used it once I do.”
“Go ahead.”
He grabbed coffee, dumped creamer into it. “I’ll only be a couple minutes.”
Julia sat, tugged on her robe. “This is strange and . . . just strange.”
“Can I ask how long you and Mr. Urich have been involved?”
“Involved? I guess about a month, but we’ve known each other for three years. Since our daughters became friends. They’re at camp together. Kelsey’s father and I divorced several years ago. Since Foster and Gemma divorced, Foster and I . . . Well, we spent some time together with the girls, playdates and parks and that kind of thing. And we’d talk. He needed someone to talk to who’d been there. Then . . . it sort of evolved. This is actually the first time we’ve . . . Anyway, I don’t suppose any of that’s relevant.”
You’d be surprised, Eve thought.
“Difficult divorce for Mr. Urich?” Peabody asked, picking up the theme.
“They’re all difficult. But it was civilized. They both love their daughter very much. Gemma just wanted something else. I think that’s what was hardest for Foster to understand. It wasn’t any one thing. She just didn’t want what they had.”
“Is she involved with someone else?”
“I don’t think so. That’s part of the something else. She just didn’t want a relationship. Not now anyway. She didn’t leave for someone else, if that’s what you mean. She’s a very decent person.”
Urich came back, stood on the other side of the coffee table. “It’s my code. Whoever reserved the transportation knew my code, my password. I don’t know how that could be. I’ve ordered a sweep and sniff, to confirm we were hacked. It’s the only explanation I have.”
“Can you think of anyone who’d want to cause you trouble?” Eve asked. “Want the cops at your door at three in the morning?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but frowned into the distance. “When you hold a position with a company like Intelicore as I do, you do generate some resentment, some anger, some hard feelings. People get fired or transferred, or written up. I can imagine there are some who wouldn’t mind seeing me hassled or inconvenienced. There are probably some who’d enjoy hearing I’d been questioned by the police. But this is more than that. This is using my name in connection with murder. No, I can’t think of anyone who’d do that.”
“I’m going to send e-detectives to your office and your home to do their own check of your equipment. Any problem with that?”
“No. I want answers on this, and quickly. I’ll have to tell The Third,” he muttered.
“The Third?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “The head of the company. I’ll need to inform him there’s been a breach, and that there’s a criminal investigation connected to it.” He dragged a hand through his hair.
“He can’t blame you,” Julia began.
“It’s my account. At some point, someone’s head’s going to roll. So believe me, Lieutenant, when I say I want answers. I don’t want that head to be mine.”
“We appreciate your cooperation.” Eve got to her feet. “If he’s the head of the company, why do you call him The Third?”
“Sylvester B. Moriarity the Third. His grandfather started the company.”
She had that information already, but circled around it. “And he takes an active role in the company.”
“He’s involved, certainly. I’ll walk you out.”
“They were sweet,” Peabody said when she got into the passenger’s seat. “Well, they were,” she insisted when Eve said nothing. “Him all blushy and flustered about having a woman there, and her making coffee and wearing his robe.”
“More to the point is he has a solid alibi, and he’s just not part of this. We check the admin and the admin’s boy. Cross-check them, and their family, tight friends, with Dudley. We run the weapon. Who buys a freaking bayonet? The same kind who buys a crossbow. A person who has access to high-tech jammers, and the shielding to get them through a scanner. Gotta have skills, or money, or both.”
“Probably have to be whacked, too. Killing two people, and it’s looking like those two people were pulled out of a hat—if you’re right and it’s not about the victim as much as the method and the killing.”
“Who hires the most exclusive LC in the city, then doesn’t take time to bang her? She gets paid a hefty deposit in advance, so it’s somebody who doesn’t mind pissing several thousand dollars away.”
“Not his money anyway, since it came out of Intelicore’s coffers.”
“Yeah.” Eve turned it over in h
er mind as she drove to Central.
“Back-to-back murders,” she said, crossing the underground lot to the elevator. “Both planned out, set up, both using somebody else’s ID, and both expensive whoever gets dinged for the cost. Big-ass corporations would probably be insured against this sort of fraud.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Bet they are. Sweet and Urich will take some heat, but if it can be proved they didn’t authorize the payment, they could squeak out of it—and the company probably will. The insurance company takes the hit. Let’s find out who insures these people.”
They switched to a glide. “Start the runs. I’m going up to EDD, see if they’ve got anything for us.”
For once EDD was almost peaceful. Only a handful manned the cubes and desks at this hour. They paced and pranced, snapped gum and fingers, but there wasn’t so much of a crowd. Noting McNab wasn’t at his station, she veered off to the lab.
She saw him behind the glass, prancing and snapping—and sucking down a jumbo drink—probably something so sweet it caused the teeth to ache. Roarke sat manning keyboard and screen, his hair tied back, what she assumed was a sensible coffee on the counter.
To her surprise, she saw Feeney, EDD’s captain and her former partner. His hair, an explosion of ginger and silver, looked as though he’d been struck by lightning. His face looked saggier than usual, probably because he’d been called into work in the middle of the night. He wore a white shirt more wrinkled than his brown pants.
She stepped in. “Geek report.”
Feeney glanced her way. “Kid, can’t you catch something normal? Freaking bayonets and crossbows?”
“Keeps me from getting bored.”
“Rich people get bored. Working stiffs don’t have time to.” He took the drink out of McNab’s hand, slurped some down. “Security discs got shaked and baked. Solid system for an amusement, but it’s compromised. We’ll get back what we can.”
“It won’t be much. Bloody buggering hell.” Roarke shoved back. “The system wasn’t simply jammed—and in a pinpoint manner at that—but wiped with a shagging virus tossed in for good measure. The device used had to be very sophisticated, possibly military.”
“So it’s a wash? You can’t do anything.”
His eyes narrowed, blue lightning, as she’d expected. “It’s early days yet, Lieutenant.”
“What about general park security? Have we picked her up there?”
“I’m all over that.” McNab plopped down, swiveled to a unit. “We’ve got her coming in. Limo pulls up here, see? Driver gets out.”
“Yeah, got her name. We’ll talk to her.”
“Vic gets out—some legs. Walks straight to the entrance for scan.”
“She’s looking around for him,” Eve added. “Waiting just past the scanners, looking around. There, she spots him. See how she puts on the big smile, gives the hair a toss, starts forward.”
“Yeah, and we hit another blip. Just a few seconds. Zap, zap. I’ve run through with her image as focal, picked up a couple more blips. When you cross them with the layout, you can basically follow them straight to the spook house.”
“He didn’t waste any time.”
“And he knew the layout,” Roarke added. “Of the park, and its security.
“But he missed just a nanosecond. Going into the spook house. Switching from jamming the outer cam and the inner. We’ve got a piece of him.”
She saw the partial profile, the shoulder, the side of the body as the killer stepped in, one hand lifted, palm on the back of the white dress Crampton had worn, the other in his pocket.
“Just the face, enhance it.”
McNab ordered the computer.
“Facial hair—you catch the side of a beard. Wearing the hair long. Looks heavier than Urich. A few pounds. It’s not him, but from what we can see there’s enough resemblance to his ID shot to have fooled her. She’s expecting this guy, and he’s likely told her what he’d be wearing, maybe how he’d grown the beard, the hair, gained a little weight. She saw what she’d been prepped to see. How much more can we get from this?”
“I’m working on a composite. We can get a solid spec from this. We’ve got the shape of his face, part of one eye, basic jawline.”
“The beard’s going to be fake. He’s got to convince her he’s Urich, so he’s got to have something to mask some features. Get me a composite with and without.”
“On it.”
“Tiny little mistake. He’s excited, and he slipped up, just a little bit. He’s going to be about Urich’s height. Could be wearing lifts, but he’s going to be about his height. He could be wearing some padding to add weight, but that doesn’t play for me. He’d want to be as close to Urich as possible, so he’s a little heavier, carries more pounds. Give me the shoe.”
McNab blinked, shrugged. “Okay.”
“Enhance.”
She narrowed her eyes. “They’re—what do you call them—loafers. Dark brown, look expensive. Let’s get a make on them.”
“Taught her everything she knows,” Feeney said to Roarke. “Nice play.”
“He likes good shoes,” Eve continued, “and he can afford them. Why wear expensive shoes to a murder at an amusement park?”
“Not everyone is as dismissive of good footwear as you, darling.”
She turned a beady eye on Roarke. “No darlings from civilians. Sneaks or skids make more sense. You can move faster if you have to. It’s Coney freaking Island. It’s a playground. But he wears good shoes. He’s vain, and he likes expensive, exclusive. Or maybe he’s just used to them. He’s going to kill her, but he wants her to notice he’s got good taste and the dough to float it.
“Keep at it,” she told McNab. “I need a minute with you.” She crooked a finger at Roarke as she walked out.
When he’d followed her out, Roarke wrapped a light grip around the finger she’d crooked. “Try to remember I’m your husband, not a subordinate.”
“Jeez, sorry. If I’d thought of you as a subordinate I’d probably have told you to get your ass out here. Or words to that effect.”
“Most likely true. Still.” He gave her finger a quick squeeze. “Let’s have a walk. I’m hungry.”
“I don’t—”
“If I have to settle for something from the pitiful vending choices around here you can walk and talk.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as he turned down a corridor toward the pitiful vending choices. “While you’re at it, remember you’re the one who jumped on board with this.”
“I’m well aware.” He stood in front of one of the machines, scowling at the offerings. “I suppose the crisps are the safest.”
“Just use my code. It’s—”
“I know what your code is.” He ordered five bags.
“Jesus, I guess you are hungry.”
“You’re having one, and you’ll toss one to Peabody. The others are for my lab mates.”
While the machine, which was never quite so cooperative with her, jingled out the data on the soy chips, Roarke studied her. “What do you need?”
“I just have a couple questions. Does your control-the-global-economy corps have insurance against hacking and fraud?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah, so if Sweet or Urich worked for you, and this went down, you’d be covered.”
“There’d be an investigation, which would take time, and possibly some legal wrangling, but yes. That’s good,” he added as he gathered up the bags. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”
“Makes you the subordinate.”
He pinched her. “Makes me focused on the trees—or the data and imaging—rather than the forest. It would cost the companies time and some money, but it’s relatively small change. The publicity could cause more damage, but they’ll have their spinners working on that. Cooperating with the authorities, full internal investigation. And they’ll likely chop a head or two.”
“Yeah, that was Urich’s
take. As emperor of all you survey, do you know or have access to the codes and passwords of your employees?”
“If you mean as head of Roarke Industries do I have full access to that data, yes.”
“Because you can out-hack the hackers, or because of your position?”
“Both. Isn’t this interesting?”
“Maybe. What do you know about Winston Cunningham Dudley the Fourth?”
“Friends call him Winnie.”
“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Do you?”
“No, but then I don’t know him, particularly. We’ve met, certainly, at charity events, that sort of thing, but don’t have anything in common.”
“You’re both really rich.”
“There’s a difference between multigenerational wealth and wealth more recently and personally acquired.”
“So he’s a fuck-headed snob?”
He laughed. “You do whittle things down. I have no idea. What I do know, and that’s more impression and passing commentary, is he seems to enjoy his privilege and socializes with his own kind. Dudley and Son is solid and run well. If you’re considering he’s gone on a murderous rampage, folding in one of his top people, I’d have to ask why would he?”
“That’s another area. I’m just trying to get a feel. What about the other company, Intelicore, and the other guy. Sylvester Bennington Moriarity the Third. And where do they come up with these names?”
“I think the fourth speaks for itself. Given our background and lineage, when we have children, we’ll have to make up impressive names. Like Bartholomew Ezekiel.”
“If we have a kid, I hope I like him better than to do that to him.”
“That would be a factor.” He turned back to the machine and ordered a citrus power drink.
“You have coffee.”
“Which is, thanks to this consultation, cold by now. I want something to wash down these crisps. I don’t know Moriarity any better than the other—I believe friends call him Sly. If memory serves, they’re both in their forties, grew up in the lifestyle one expects on that level. They play polo or squash or golf, I imagine.”
“You don’t like them.”