Loyalty in Death

by J. D. Robb

  "Paul Lamont rings the clearest bell. His father fought in the French Wars before the family immigrated here. Paul's father was very skilled and passed considerable knowledge on to his son. Paul is a member of the security team for one of my businesses here in New York. Autotron. We make droids and various small electronics."

  "You pals?"

  "He works for me—and we…developed a project or two several years ago."

  "And it's not the kind of project a good cop needs to know about."

  "Exactly. He's been with Autotron for more than six years now. We haven't had contact beyond that relationship for nearly that amount of time."

  "Uh-huh. And what are these skills his dear old dad passed along to him?"

  "Paul's father was a saboteur. He specialized in explosives."

  *** CHAPTER THIRTEEN ***

  Peabody hadn't slept well. She dragged into work heavy-eyed and vaguely achy, as if she were coming down with some nasty little bug. She hadn't eaten, either. Though her appetite was dependable—sometimes too dependable—she expected few could eat hearty after spending several hours tagging body parts.

  That she could have lived with. That was the job, and she had learned how to channel all thoughts and energies into the job during the months she'd worked under Eve.

  What she couldn't live with, and what spread a thin layer of cranky over fatigue, was the fact that a great deal of her thoughts—and not pure ones—and entirely too much of her energies had been centered on McNab during the long night.

  She hadn't been able to talk to Zeke. Not about this sudden weird compulsion for McNab. McNab, for Christ's sake. And she hadn't wanted to talk about the bombing at The Plaza.

  He'd seemed distracted himself, she thought now, and they'd circled each other the night before and again that morning.

  She'd make it up to him, Peabody promised herself. She'd carve out a couple of hours that night and take him to some funky little club for a meal and music. Zeke loved music. It would do them both good, she decided as she stepped off the guide and tried to rub the stiffness out of the back of her neck.

  She turned toward the conference room and rammed straight into McNab. He sprang back, collided with a pair of uniforms who toppled into a clerk from Anti-crime.

  Nobody took his apology very well, and he was red-faced and sweaty by the time he managed to look Peabody in the eye again. "You, ah, heading into the meeting."

  "Yeah." She tugged at her uniform coat. "Just now."

  "Me, too." They stared at each other a moment while people shoved by them.

  "You shake anything loose on Apollo?"

  "Not much." She cleared her throat, tugged her coat again, and finally managed to start moving. "The lieutenant's probably waiting."

  "Yeah, right." He fell into step beside her. "You get any sleep?"

  She thought of warm slick bodies . .. and stared straight ahead. "Some."

  "Me, either." His jaw ached from gritting his teeth, but it had to be said. "Look, about yesterday."

  "Forget it." She snapped it out.

  "I already have. But if you're going to walk around all tight-assed about it—"

  "I'll walk any way I want, and you just keep your hands off me, you moron, or I'll rip your lungs out and use them for bagpipes."

  "Same goes, sweetheart. I'd rather kiss the back end of an alley cat."

  Her breath was coming quick now. Outrage. "I bet that's just your style."

  "Better that than a stiff-necked uniform with an attitude."

  "Asshole."

  "Twit."

  They turned together into an empty office, slammed the door. And leapt at each other.

  She bit his lip. He nipped her tongue. She body pressed him against the wall. He managed to get his hands under her thick coat to squeeze her ass. The moans that ripped from their throats came out as one single, tortured sound.

  Then her back was against the wall and he filled his hands with her breasts.

  "Oh God, you're built. You are so built."

  He was kissing her as if he could swallow her whole. As if the universe centered on that one taste. Her head was spinning too fast for her to catch her own thoughts. And somehow the bright buttons of her uniform were open and his fingers were on her flesh.

  Who'd have thought the man had such fabulous fingers?

  "We can't do this." Even as she said it she was scraping her teeth along his throat.

  "I know. We'll stop. In a minute." The scent of her—all starch and soap—was driving him crazy. He was fighting with her bra when the 'link behind them beeped and had them both muffling a scream.

  Panting like dogs, clothes twisted, eyes glazed, they stared at each other with a kind of horror. "Holy God," he managed.

  "Step back, step back." She shoved him hard enough to knock him back on his heels and began to fumble with her buttons. "It's the pressure. It's the stress. It's something, because this is not happening."

  "Right, absolutely. If I don't have sex with you, I think I'm going to die."

  "If you'd die, I wouldn't have this problem." She did her buttons up wrong, swore, and fumbled them open again.

  Watching her, he felt his tongue go thick. "Having sex would be the mother of all mistakes."

  "Agreed." She buttoned her uniform again, then met his eyes dead-on. "Where?"

  "Your place?"

  "Can't. My brother's staying with me."

  "Mine then. After shift. We'll just do it, and it's done and we'll, you know. Get it out of the way and be back to normal."

  "Deal." With a brisk nod, she bent and picked up her cap. "Tuck in your shirt, McNab."

  "I don't think that's a good idea quite yet." He grinned at her. "Dallas might wonder why I've got a hard-on the size of Utah."

  Peabody snorted, straightened her cap. "Your ego, maybe."

  "Baby, we'll see what you say about that after shift."

  She felt a little tingling between her thighs, but sniffed. "Don't call me baby," she told him and yanked open the door.

  She kept her head up and her eyes straight ahead as she walked the rest of the way to the conference room.

  Eve was already there, which gave Peabody a quick twinge of guilt. Three boards were set up, and her lieutenant was busy covering the last of them with hard copy data.

  "Glad you could make it." Eve said it dryly without turning around.

  "I ran into…traffic. Do you want me to finish that for you, sir?"

  "I've got it. Get me coffee, and program the screen for hard copy. We won't be using discs on this."

  "I'll get the screen," McNab volunteered. "And I could use some coffee, too. No discs, Lieutenant?"

  "No, I'll update when the full team's here."

  They went to work quietly, so quietly that Eve got an itch between her shoulder blades. The two of them should've been sniping at each other by now, she thought, and glanced over her shoulder.

  Peabody had given McNab his coffee, which was weird enough. But while she printed out hard copy of her own discs, she smiled at him. Well, not really a smile, Eve mused, but close.

  "You two take happy pills this morning?" she asked, then frowned when they both blushed. "What's the deal?" she began, then shook her head when Anne Malloy and Feeney came in. "Never mind."

  "Dallas." Anne stayed in the doorway. "Can I talk to you a minute?"

  "Sure."

  "Make it quick," Feeney suggested. "Whitney and the chief are heading in."

  "I'll keep it short." Anne drew a breath when Eve joined her at the door. "I want to apologize for yesterday. I had no call coming down on you that way."

  "It was a tough scene."

  "Yeah. I've done tough scenes before." She glanced into the room, lowered her voice another notch. "I didn't handle it well, and that won't happen again."

  "Don't beat yourself up over it, Anne. It wasn't a big deal."

  "Big enough. You're heading this investigation, and you have to count on all of us. I blew it yesterday, and you nee
d to know why. I'm pregnant again."

  "Oh." Eve blinked, shifted her feet. "Is that good?"

  "It is for me." With a little laugh, Anne laid a hand on her belly. "Nearly four months into it now, and I'll tell my shift commander in a couple weeks. I've done it twice before and it hasn't interfered with my job. It did yesterday. It was the kids that got me, Dallas, but I've got a handle on it now."

  "Fine. You're not feeling…weird or anything?"

  "No, I'm good. I just want to keep it quiet for a few more weeks. Once everybody finds out, they start the betting pool and the jokes." She lifted her shoulders. "I'd like to close this case before all that gets going. So, are we square here?"

  "Sure. Here come the brass," she murmured. "Give Peabody your report and evidence discs. We'll be using hard copy."

  Eve remained in the doorway, at attention. "Commander. Chief Tibble."

  "Lieutenant." Tibble, a tall, nearly massive man with sharp eyes, nodded as he walked by her into the room. He glanced at the boards, then as was his habit, linked his hands behind his back. "If everyone would please be seated. Commander Whitney, would you close the door?"

  Tibble waited. He was a patient man and a thorough one, with a mind like a street cop and a talent for administration. He scanned the faces of the team Whitney had put together. Neither approval nor disapproval showed on his face.

  "Before you begin your reports, I've come to tell you that both the mayor and the governor have requested a federal anti-terrorist team to assist in this investigation."

  He watched Eve's eyes flash and narrow and silently approved her control. "This is not a reflection on the work being done here. Rather it's a statement as to the scope of the problem itself. I have a meeting this morning to discuss the progress of the investigation and to make the final decision as to whether a federal team should indeed be called in."

  "Sir." Eve kept her voice level and her hands on her knees. "If they're called in, which team heads the investigation?"

  His brows lifted. "If the feds come in, the case would be theirs. You would assist. I don't imagine that sits well with you, Lieutenant, or any of your team."

  "No, sir, it doesn't."

  "Well then." He moved to a chair, sat. "Convince me that the investigation should remain in your hands. We've had three bombings in this city in two days. What have you got, and where are you going with it?"

  She rose, moved to the first board. "The Apollo group," she began and went step by step through all the gathered data.

  "Henson, William Jenkins." She paused there as the square-jawed, tough-eyed face flashed on-screen. She hadn't had time to closely review the data Roarke had accessed for her, so she went slowly here. "He served as Rowan's campaign manager, and according to sources, a great deal more. It's believed he acted as a kind of general in Rowan's revolution. Assisting and often devising the military strategies, selecting targets, training and disciplining the troops. Like Rowan, he had a background in the military and in covert work. Initially, it was believed he was killed in the explosion that destroyed Rowan's Boston headquarters, but several subsequent sightings of the subject negated that belief. He's never been located."

  "You believe he's part of this current group, Cassandra." Whitney studied the face on-screen, then looked at Eve.

  "There's a connection, and it's my belief he's one of the links. The FBI files on Henson remain open." She shifted gears and relayed the information on the maze of false companies inputted into the data banks.

  "Apollo," she continued. "Cassandra, Mount Olympus, Aries, Aphrodite, and so on. It all connects. Their expert manipulation of data banks, the high quality of the materials used in their explosives, the employment of a disenfranchised former soldier to manufacture their equipment, the tone and content of their transmissions all connect and echo back to the original group."

  Because it seemed so foolish, she let out a little breath before she spoke again. "In Greek mythology, Apollo gave Cassandra the power of prophecy. Eventually, they had a disagreement, and that's when he fixed it so she could predict, but nobody would believe her. But I think the hook is she got her power from him. This Cassandra doesn't really care if we believe her or not. She's not trying to save, but to destroy."

  "That's an interesting theory, Lieutenant. And logical enough." Tibble sat back, listened, watched the facts and images flash on-screen. "You've made the connections, have at least partial motives. It's good work." Then he glanced back at her. "The FBI anti-terrorist team would be very interested in how you came by a great deal of this information, Lieutenant."

  She didn't so much as blink. "I used what sources were available to me, sir."

  "I'm sure you did." He folded his hands. "As I said, good work."

  "Thank you." She moved past the second board to the third. "The current line of investigation corroborates our conclusions that there's a connection between the old Apollo group and Cassandra. Fixer believed there was, and though any evidence he may have gathered in that area is likely destroyed, the connection continues to hold through this second line. The tactics used by both groups are similar. In Dr. Mira's report, she terms Cassandra's political creed as a recycling of Apollo's. Following this angle, I believe that the people who formed Cassandra have connections to or were once a part of Apollo."

  Tibble held up a hand. "Isn't it possible these people studied Apollo—just as you are—and chose to mirror that group as closely as possible?"

  "It's not impossible, sir."

  "If it's a copycat," Feeney put in, "it's going to be tougher."

  "Even a copycat has to have a connection," Eve insisted. "The Apollo group was essentially disbanded when Rowan and some of his top people were killed. That was over thirty years ago, and the public was never privy to any but the sketchiest of details about him and his organization. Without a connection, who cares? It was over years ago, a lifetime ago. Rowan's not even a smudge in the history books because it was never proven—in reports to media—that he was the head of Apollo. Files verifying this are sealed. Apollo claimed responsibility for some bombings and for Arlington, then essentially vanished. There's a connection," she finished. "I don't believe it's a mirror, sir, but a personal stake. The people who head Cassandra killed hundreds yesterday. And they did it to prove they could. The bombs at Radio City were a tease, a test. The Plaza was always the target. And this echoes the theme used by Apollo."

  She nodded toward the screen again, shifted to new copy. "The first building Apollo claims to have destroyed was an empty storehouse outside of what was then the District of Columbia. The local police were alerted, and there were no injuries. Following that, the locals were tipped that there were explosives in the Kennedy Center. All but one bomb was defused, the building was successfully evacuated, and the single explosive discharged caused only minor damage and injury. But this was immediately followed up by a bombing in the lobby of the Mayflower Hotel. There was no warning given. Casualties were steep. Apollo took responsibility for all three incidents, but only the last was reported in the media."

  Whitney leaned forward, studying the screen. "What was next?"

  "The newly refurbished U-Line Arena during a basketball game. Fourteen thousand people were killed or injured. If Cassandra runs true to form, I'm looking at Madison Square or the Pleasure Dome. By keeping all data out of the mainframe and within this room, there's no way for Cassandra to know our current avenue of investigation. We should be a step ahead of them."

  "Thank you, Lieutenant Dallas. Lieutenant Malloy, your report on the explosives?"

  Anne rose, moved to the middle board. The next thirty minutes were technical: electronics, triggers, timers, remotes, materials. Rate of detonation, scope of impact.

  "Pieces of the devices are still being gathered on-scene and are under lab analysis," she concluded. "At this time we know we're working with intricate, handmade units. Plaston appears to be the material of favor. Analysis is incomplete as to the capabilities of distance on the remotes, but it appe
ars to be extreme long range. These aren't toys, no homemade boomers, but high-level military-style explosives. I concur with Lieutenant Dallas's opinion on Radio City. If this group had wanted it blown, it'd be dust."

  She sat, giving way to Feeney. "This is one of the surveillance cameras my team swept out of Radio City." He held up a small round unit hardly bigger than the circle made by his thumb and forefinger. "It's damn well made. We tagged twenty-five of them from scene. They watched every step we took and could have blown us to hell in a heartbeat."

  He slipped the bug back into its seal. "EDD is working with Malloy and her people to develop a longer-range, more sensitive bomb scanner. Meanwhile, I'm not saying the feds don't have good people, but so do we. And it's our damn city. Added to that, this group contacted Dallas. They targeted her. You pull her back now, and us with her, you're going to change the balance. Once it tips, we could lose it all."

  "So noted. Dallas?" Tibble lifted a finger. "An opinion on why this group contacted you?"

  "Only conjecture, sir. Roarke owns or has interests in the targets thus far. I'm connected to Roarke. It amuses them. Fixer referred to it as a game. I think they're enjoying it. He also spoke of revenge."

  She rose again, shifted the image of Monica Rowan on-screen. "She'd have the most cause to enjoy some revenge, and as Rowan's widow, would be the most likely person to have personal and inside knowledge of his group."

  "You and your aide are cleared for immediate travel to Maine," Tibble told her. "Commander? Comments?"

  "This team has put together an impressive amount of evidence and probability in a short amount of time." Whitney rose. "It's my opinion that a federal team would be superfluous."

  "I believe the lieutenant and her team have given me enough balls to juggle for the politicians." Tibble got to his feet as well. "Dallas, you remain in charge until further notice. I expect updates on every step. It's our city, Captain Feeney," he added as he turned to the door. "Let's keep it intact."

  "Whew." McNab let out a huge sigh when the door closed again. "Dodged that beam."

  "And if we want to keep this case where it belongs, we're going to work our butts off." Eve smiled at him thinly. "Your social life just went down the sewer, pal. We need that long-range scanner. And I want every arena and sports complex in every borough scanned. New Jersey as well."