by J. D. Robb
“Happy to.”
He walked with her, moved through the door just behind her, then yanked her back to indulge in a deeper, longer kiss.
“I’m on duty.” She murmured it against his mouth as her brain went to fizzle.
“I know. Just a minute.” One day, he thought, he might actually get used to the way the love for her, the need for her, could leap up and grab him by the throat. But in the meantime, he’d just enjoy the ride.
“Okay.” He drew back, ran his hands from her shoulders to her wrists. “That should hold me.”
“You blow the top of my head off.” She shook it clear. “Pow. A lot better than fake chocolate.”
“Darling Eve, I’m touched.”
“Yeah, and this was fun, but I’ve got a briefing coming up. Why are you here?”
“I wanted to buy you a candy bar. By the way, did you know Peabody and McNab have had a spat?”
“I hate that word. They’ve had something, just like I told you they would, and it’s your fault for giving McNab advice. I sent Peabody off to take a soother or something and lie down.”
“Did you talk to her about it?”
“No. No, I didn’t, and I’m not going to.”
“Eve.”
The way he said it, with just a hint of censure, put her back up. “We’re working here. You know murder and mayhem, law and order, little stuff like that. What am I supposed to do when she comes moping in here all teary-eyed?”
“Listen,” he said simply, and took the wind out of her sails.
“Oh, man.”
“In any case,” he continued, amused. “I came by to let you know I have a dinner meeting with Magda and her people. She wanted you to come, but I’ve explained you’re booked. I shouldn’t be late.”
She choked back a little sigh. “If you let me know where the meeting is, and when, I’ll try to swing by if I get loose.”
“I don’t expect you to squeeze it in.”
“I know. I guess that’s why I’ll try to swing by.”
“Top of New York, eight-thirty. Thank you.”
“If I’m not there by nine-fifteen, I’m not going to make it.”
“That’s fine. Is there any progress I should know about in my capacity as consultant?”
“Not much, but you can sit in on the briefing.”
“I can’t. I’m due in midtown shortly. You can give me a private briefing tonight.” He lifted her hand, kissed the knuckles she’d bruised punching the vending machine. “Try to get through the rest of the day without fighting with another inanimate object.”
“Ha-ha,” she said when he walked out.
Then, because she could, she moved to the door and watched him go. The man has a great ass, she thought as she nibbled on her candy bar. A truly great ass.
She pulled herself back, gathered the files and discs she needed for the briefing, and headed off to the reserved conference room to set up.
She’d barely begun when Peabody came in. “I’ll do that, Lieutenant.”
Her eyes were dry, Eve noted with relief, her voice steady, and her spine straight.
Eve opened her mouth, nearly asked Peabody if she felt better before she realized the danger of that. Like quicksand, that sort of comment or inquiry would suck you right down into the muck of dialogue about a subject you prefer to pretend didn’t exist in the first place.
So she stood back and kept her mouth shut, firmly, while Peabody loaded discs and stacked hard copies of the updates on chairs.
“I also have the record of the media conference, Lieutenant. Do you want me to load it?”
“No, that goes home with me, for my personal viewing pleasure. Did you catch it?”
“Yeah, they danced and they dodged, then Nadine pinned them with a question on operational procedure. Like, duh, you moved on the building without verifying the target was in place? So, Jacoby juggled around with that, trying to pull ‘We can’t comment on operational procedure’ and blah, blah, then she pinned them again with the fact that the target, a known professional assassin, slipped through their fingers and is now at large even after a complex and expensive operation was put into effect, and why did he think that happened?”
“Good old Nadine.”
“Yeah, she asked it really polite, too, with a sympathetic expression and everything. Before he could recover, other reporters had picked up the hammer. They smashed right through and all the spinning in the known universe couldn’t get them back on rhythm. They called the conference ten minutes ahead of schedule.”
“Media, one. Feebs, zero.”
“Subzero. I guess it’s not fair to blame the whole Bureau over the idiocy of two agents.”
“Maybe not, but it’s working for me right now.”
She glanced over as Feeney burst in. He was showing his teeth in what might have been a grin and waving a disc. “Got some data here.” He all but sang it. “Primo data. Let’s see the Feebs try to muscle us off our own turf again. We got the arm now. Special Agent Stowe knew one of the victims. Personally.”
“How?”
“Went to college together, took some of the same classes, belonged to the same clubs. And roomed together for three months before the victim went overseas.”
“They were pals? How’d I miss that in the profiles?”
“Because Stowe didn’t mention the connection in her profiles. She buried it.”
Eve felt the comfortable warmth of a fresh weapon in her hand, then stopped, backtracked, eyed the disc Feeney was busy loading. “Where did you get the data?”
He knew she’d ask, which was one reason he’d copied the disc onto one out of his own stash. “Anonymous source.”
Her eyes narrowed. Roarke. “You’ve suddenly got a weasel who can access FBI files and personal data on its agents?”
“Looks like,” he said cheerfully. “It’s a mystery to me. The disc just showed up on my desk. Nothing to stop us from using data accessed from an anonymous source. For all I know, it came from a mole in the FBI.”
She could have argued, she could have pressed. But the fact was, even if he knew the data had come from Roarke, Feeney would never admit it. “Let’s have a look. You’re late,” she said when McNab strolled in.
“Sorry, Lieutenant, unavoidably detained.” He sauntered over, took a chair, and made it clear to everyone in the room that he wasn’t so much as looking at Peabody.
She made it equally clear she wasn’t so much as looking at him.
The result was the temperature in the room plummeted, the air went frosty, and Eve and Feeney exchanged pained glances.
“You have the hard copy of my updated report. We have a fresh alias to hang on Sylvester Yost.” She gestured toward the board where Yost’s various images and names were posted, alongside his known victims, the location of each murder, and the physical evidence found on scene.
“I did a run,” she continued. “Computer, data on Roles, Martin K., on-screen. You’ll note he developed this alter ego carefully. He has full identification, credit line, residence, but the address is bogus. He filed taxes under this name, maintained a health card, carried a passport. We have some of these activities under other aliases, but none that we have verified to date maintain and employ all these activities. This, at my guess, is his retirement identity, the one he’s keeping clean and normal so it sends up no flags via CompuGuard or any security agency.”
“If he’s a skilled hacker, he may have adjusted the data here and there to suit,” McNab put in.
“Agreed. He is unaware that we’ve made this match. This is the identity we focus on, and we make sure we don’t send up flags. All search and scan on this individual will be Level Three. He’ll own property under this name. Find it.”
“I’ll start the search right after the briefing,” said McNab. “I’ve been trying a scattershot scan on known victims, getting probabilities on who might have contracted the hits. I’ve got a couple of possibles, but nothing solid enough to move on yet.”
“Takin
g a page out of the book ignored by our pals in the FBI, we don’t move until we know. A man as experienced and as efficient as this has solid backup ID. We spook him, he could ditch Roles and go with something we don’t have a tag on. Let’s keep him confident. Now, for Captain Feeney’s big surprise.”
She gestured and turned the briefing over. Feeney rubbed his hands together, got to his feet, and ran through the data Roarke had passed on to him.
McNab nearly bounced in his seat. “This is hot stuff.”
Peabody spared a look for McNab now, a withering one. “Like you’d know hot.”
He was so pleased she’d been the first to break, the insult barely registered. “I was born hot. How’d you get into the files?”
Feeney looked down his pug nose. “Accessing official data or the attempt to access is illegal. This data was given to me by an anonymous source. As it’s gone deep into confidentials without sending flags, I have to assume the source is federal.”
“And pigs fly,” Eve said under her breath. “However the information came into our hands, we have it. It’s a tool. Not a hammer,” she said, scanning faces and watching disappointment form. “A pry bar. Feeney, I’d like to arrange a private meet with Stowe—use this. Her record’s spotless, and if this data proving she lied and/or falsified her official documents got back to the Bureau drones, she’d have a big ugly mark on it, along with a reprimand. She’d be kicked off this investigation and likely assigned, at least temporarily, to some field office in Bumfuck. She doesn’t want that. I say she doesn’t want it bad enough to trade.”
“As long as you squeeze till it stings, that’ll do for me. You’ll note, our dear friend Special Agent Jacoby, while not exactly a birdbrain, does not go to the head of the class. His profile shows average intelligence, offset by arrogance, ambition, and a resentment for authority. You add that all up, spit it out, and you got a dangerous individual. If anybody’s going to fuck this up, it’s going to be him. I wouldn’t mind asking Mira to take a look at him, give us her take.”
“The data came to you,” Eve told him. “Your call. Now probability results.” She ordered them on-screen. “You can see we’ve got a ninety-eight point eight percent that he’ll attempt to complete the job. He has a rep; he won’t want it marred. He’ll go for the next target, and he’ll try to stay on schedule. The first two came close together. I believe the third attempt will be within the next twenty-four. Probability, again, goes to ninety-three point six that subject is in the city or within easy transpo distance. But that’s qualified by the assumption his target is also in the city or its environs. There’s no way we can be sure of that single fact, and due to it, no way we can begin to protect whoever he intends to hit next.”
She looked back at the screen. “So we work on it. And we wait on it.”
She closed the briefing, detailing assignments, scheduling a morning briefing for eight. “We’ve got an hour till end of shift. If nothing pops by then, we’ll call it for the night. Get some sleep, and we’ll start pushing tomorrow.”
“Works for me, but I might have to pass on the sleep. I’ve got a date.” McNab had waited through the briefing just for the chance to say it. And he resisted, through enormous will, looking around for Peabody’s reaction.
But Eve saw it. The jerk of shock, the initial hurt that burned cleanly toward fury, then iced into dismissal. Iced, she thought, if you didn’t know her well enough to see through the shield to the wound.
Damn it.
“I’m sure we’re all thrilled for you, McNab,” Eve said coolly. “Eight hundred, this conference room. Dismissed.” She kept her eyes on his as she spoke, had the nasty pleasure of seeing him shrink a little.
Then he was up and swaggering out the door. Feeney rolled his eyes and followed. Followed just close enough to smack his detective smartly on the side of the head with the flat of his hand.
“Ow! What the hell?”
“You know what the hell.”
“Oh, fine. Great. She can rumba off with some sex-for-hire sleazebag, and nobody says a thing. I have a date and I get blindsided.”
Because he recognized misery when it was staring him in the face, Feeney scowled, drilled a finger into McNab’s skinny chest. “I’m not talking about it.”
“Neither am I.” McNab hunched his shoulders and steamed off in a sulk.
“Peabody.” Eve jumped in before her aide had the chance to speak. “Unload and file all discs, book this room for the scheduled time.”
“Yes, sir.” She had to swallow, hated the fact that the simple act was audible and painful.
“Check in with Monroe, see if he has any more information on Roles. Then stand by in your work area until I contact you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eve waited until Peabody had finished gathering what she needed and had moved out of the room like a droid. “This is really going to suck,” she decided. “Just listen, he says. A lot he knows about it.”
Doing her best to push Peabody out of her mind, Eve sat down and made the call to the federal building.
“Stowe.”
“Dallas. I need a meet. Just you and me. Tonight.”
“I’m busy, and have no interest in meeting you tonight or anytime. Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I couldn’t figure out who fed that reporter?”
“She eats just fine on her own.” Eve waited a beat. “Winifred C. Cates” was all she said, and watched Stowe go pale.
“What about her?” she returned, with admirable composure. “She’s one of Yost’s likelies.”
“Tonight, Stowe, unless you want me to go into detail over the ’link.”
“I can’t get away until seven.”
“Nineteen-thirty hours, the Blue Squirrel. I’m sure a smart federal agent can find the address.”
Stowe lowered her voice, moved closer to the screen. “Just you?”
“That’s right. For the moment. Seven-thirty, Agent Stowe. Don’t keep me waiting.”
She broke transmission, checked her wrist unit and did her best to gauge her time. Feeling slightly less apprehensive than she might have if going in to face a team of chemi-heads armed with laser scalpels, she walked down to the squad room, detoured into her office for her jacket, then out to Peabody’s cubicle.
“You tag Charles?”
“Yes, sir. His client met the man purporting to be Roles at a Sotheby’s auction last winter. He outbid her on a painting. A Masterfield landscape, circa 2021. She believes it went for two million four.”
“Sotheby’s. It’s after five. They’d be closed. Okay, you’re with me.” She started out, waited for Peabody to fall in step. “Did she have impressions?”
“Charles said she found Roles impeccably mannered, knowledgeable about art, and elegantly aloof. She admitted she’d tried to wrangle an invitation to see the painting once he had his displayed, but he didn’t even nibble. Charles says she’s a stunner, a real babe, mid-thirties, and falling-down rich. Since most men would have jumped at the chance, she figured he was into men. But when she tried out the chatter—you know, who they might know, what club he patronized, and all that—he evaded and slipped away from her.”
“If she’s such a babe, why does she need to hire an LC?”
“I guess because Charles is a babe, and there isn’t any danger of strings. He’ll do whatever she wants during the scheduled time.” Peabody sighed as they stepped out into the garage. “People hire or hang with LCs for a lot of reasons. It isn’t always about sex.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll see what we can dig up in Sotheby’s tomorrow.” That, she thought, might be something to tap Roarke about.
“Yes, sir. Where are we going now?”
“Up to you.” Eve opened her car door, stood looking at Peabody over the roof. “Want to go get drunk?”
“Sir?”
“I had a big mess-up with Roarke not that long ago. That was my choice. It’s a pretty good temporary cure.”
Peabody’s eyes filled, not just with t
ears but with gratitude. “I’d rather have ice cream.”
“Yeah, most of the time, given the choice, so would I. Let’s go get some ice cream.”
Eve stared down at the hot fudge supreme in the dish in front of her with a combination of greed and nausea. She would no doubt eat it all. She would no doubt be ill after.
The things you had to do for a pal.
She dug in for the first spoonful. “Okay, spill it.”
“Sir?”
“Let’s hear what happened.”
Peabody stared, more dazzled now by Eve’s statement than by her own banana boat surprise. “You want me to tell you about it?”
“No, I don’t want you to tell me about it. I’m telling you to tell me about it because that’s how this friendship thing is supposed to work. I hear. So.” She dug for more ice cream with one hand, waved a go-ahead with the other.
“That’s so nice of you.” Peabody got misty again, and soothed herself with nondairy whipped topping. “We were in one of the maintenance closets, sort of fooling around, and—”
Mouth full, Eve held up a hand, swallowed. “Excuse me, you and Detective McNab were engaged in some sexual activity on departmental property, while on duty?”
Peabody pokered up. “I’m not going to tell you if you’re going to start citing regulations. Anyway, we hadn’t gotten to the actual sex part yet. We were fooling around.”
“Oh, well then. That’s different. Cops are always fooling around in maintenance closets. Jesus, Peabody.” She shut her eyes, shoveled in more fudge, breathed out. “Okay, I’m over it. Move on.”
“I don’t know what it is. There’s this thing, this primal sort of thing.”
“Oh. Ick.”
Maybe it was having kick-ass Dallas say “ick,” maybe it was the pained way it was said, but the response made Peabody grin and didn’t bruise her feelings a bit. “I would’ve thought so myself until we did it. The first time was in an elevator.”
“Peabody, I’m trying here. But do we have to go back that far and discuss you and McNab doing it? It puts really weird pictures in my head.”
“Well, it all sort of goes together. Anyway, it’s not like I’m thinking about sex with him all the time, or even the fooling around part, but then something happens and we’re just, you know, doing it again. So we were fooling around . . .” she continued quickly, afraid of losing her audience.