by J. D. Robb
“You really should try to rein in that wild romantic streak.”
“I’m not going to say I told you so.”
He laughed at her, at both of them. “Yes, you are.”
“Okay, I did tell you. We’re in the middle of a messy investigation and they’re trying to score off each other, and sulking. They’re cops, damn it.”
“That’s right. But they’re not droids.”
“Okay, okay.” She threw up her hands. “But they better table it until we close this. Moving on, Whitney used his arm and got me some additional data on Mollie Newman.”
“Ah, the justice’s minor entertainment.”
“Entertainment for him maybe. Upshot is she was his niece through marriage. A nice, impressionable kid who did well in her classes and wanted to be a lawyer. The justice was going to help her out there, and apparently just helped himself. I’m leaving her out of it, at least for now.”
“You might get closer after a little chat with her.”
“I might, but it’s not worth it.” She’d worked those angles everywhere they would fit and had decided they simply didn’t fit at all. “Yost doesn’t worry about ID, so her seeing him means nothing. I don’t think he touched her, not his style.”
“He wasn’t being paid to.”
“Exactly. And her medical indicates illegals and sexual molestation. I’d hang Exotica and the molestation on the judge, the Zoner on Yost to put her down while he did the job. I don’t need her to build a case, so unless it looks like there was some connection through her or her mother to Yost, I’m leaving her alone. She’s got enough to get over.”
No one would understand better, Roarke thought. “Then we’ll leave her be.”
“Meanwhile, Feeney popped into the briefing with some very interesting data, right out of Jacoby’s and Stowe’s sealed profiles.”
If they’d been playing poker, his mildly interested expression would have pulled in the pot with a hand full of trash. “Is that so?”
“Don’t give me that. It had your fingerprints all over it.”
“Lieutenant. I’ve told you before, I never leave fingerprints.”
“I told you before I didn’t want you veering off the regulations to get me information.”
“And I haven’t.”
“No, you just used Feeney as a bridge.”
“Did he say that?” When she hissed, he smiled. “Apparently not. I can only assume this data received from some unidentified source proved useful.”
She scowled at him, pushed off the desk to pace away. Paced back. Then gave up and told him about her meeting with Karen Stowe.
“Losing a friend is never easy,” he murmured. “Losing one when you feel you might have done something to stop it leaves a hole.”
Because she knew he lived with that, she laid her hands on his shoulders. “And going back to what you might have done helps no one.”
“But you’re helping her close it, just as you helped me close mine. What do you want me to do?”
“She gave me the names of three men. I want to know about these men, without sending up flags. It’s not illegal to look at them. Looking from an angle that won’t alert their personal security is a trickier area. But it’s not against the law unless you break sealeds. I don’t want that. I just want a discreet search. If you generate it, the Feebs aren’t likely to hit on it. If I do, they will.”
“And if you take more than a standard scan, officially, on Winifred’s case file, Jacoby might clue in, might look at it closer himself. That potentially exposes Stowe.”
“Exactly. Can you do it without breaking the law?”
“Yes, but I might have to bruise it slightly. Nothing that would generate more than a knuckle rap and a small fine if I were the clumsy type and got caught at it.”
“I can’t risk asking for a warrant again to keep it all aboveboard. We haven’t plugged the leak.”
“What are the names?”
She took out the memo, handed it over.
“Well now, as it happens I know these men, and we may be able to avoid too much hacking.”
“You know them?”
“I know Hinrick, the German, and know of Naples, the American. I believe he’s set up a more or less permanent residence in London. Gerade, the ambassador’s son, is also known by reputation. On the surface he’s a diplomat, a devoted husband and father, and a spotless civil servant. His father’s paid a considerable amount of money to maintain that veneer.”
“What’s under it?”
“A spoiled, rather nasty young man, from what I’ve heard, with a demanding temperament, a taste for group sex, and a distressing illegals addiction. He’s been through private rehab a few times, at his father’s insistence. Doesn’t seem to stick.”
“How do you know all this?”
“He lives high when he can manage it, and that addiction and sex are expensive. He’s been known to arrange for certain valuable articles, in certain households to which he had access, to change hands, let’s say.”
“He arranged for you to steal property?”
“No, indeed. I always arranged that quite well on my own, when I was into such regrettable activities. I simply assisted another associate with the transportation. A number of years ago, Lieutenant. I wouldn’t be surprised if the statute of limitations is in effect.”
“Then I’ll sleep easy tonight. Before she was killed, Winifred Cates was acting as interpreter for these men on what was supposed to be a multinational communications station.”
“No.” He frowned, considering. “No, I’d have known if that had been in the works and certainly if it had gone through with those players. I might be out of certain areas of activities, but communications isn’t one of them.”
“Is that ego or fact?”
“Darling Eve, my ego is fact.” He patted her arm when she snorted. “You can trust me on this. It was a cover. Naples is successful in communications, but at the base he’s a smuggler. Illegals, contraband, and people in particular. Hinrick diversifies, but smuggling is one of his favored pastimes.”
“And you say Naples lives in England now. Those smugglers hit in the countryside—the Hagues. Might have been on him.”
He said nothing for a moment. “Yes,” he murmured. “Quite possibly.”
“It’s not much of a stretch to draw the scenario that Winifred heard or witnessed something she shouldn’t have. Something that rang enough bells with her that she contacted her pal in the FBI. For help. She needs to be taken out of the mix, Yost is hired. When a couple of independent-minded smugglers get a little too big for their britches, Yost is hired. If we can tie one or all of these men into either hit, I’m one step closer to Yost.”
She paused, frowned. “Why didn’t any of their criminal activities pop for the feds?”
Roarke nearly smiled. “Some of us, Lieutenant, know how to be careful.”
“Are they as good as you? Delete that,” she said before he could answer. “No one is. Okay, which one of the three is most likely to have hired Yost to off a civil servant?”
“I don’t know enough about Gerade. If it’s between Naples and Hinrick, Naples. Hinrick is a gentleman. He’d have found another way to deal with her. Killing her? Well, he’d have considered that rude.”
“Nice to know I may be dealing with a polite criminal.”
While Roarke used his office to dig for data, Eve settled down in her own. She correlated Stowe’s files with her own, ran probables, and studied all possible matches.
Yost wasn’t going to wait much longer. She had no clue as to his target, and was still several layers away from shaking off his current cover.
Someone is going to die, she thought, probably within hours. And she couldn’t stop it.
She pulled up her victim files again. Darlene French. An ordinary young woman with a simple life, who should have had a long, uncomplicated future.
Site of murder: The Palace Hotel.
Connection: Roarke.
&n
bsp; Jonah Talbot. A bright, successful man. Upwardly mobile, who should have continued to rise.
Site of murder: rented home.
Connection: Roarke.
Both had worked for him. Both had died while on property he owned.
French had been a stranger to Roarke. A faceless employee. But Talbot had been a friend of sorts.
The third would be closer yet.
Would he come after her? She would have preferred that, but thought it was too large a leap. Another employee, if the pattern held. But one he worked with more closely. One he knew well.
Caro, his admin? That was a good bet, and precisely why Eve had called in some favors and had the efficient woman under surveillance.
But she couldn’t cover every member of his top-level teams in the city.
And if Yost jumped to another location, to one of the countless offices, plants, organizations Roarke had all over the planet and through the developed solar system, the potential targets were astronomical.
Couldn’t compute.
Still, she tried to level the field, to connect the dots through the mountain of data Roarke had given her. The primary result was a wicked little headache. How could the man own so much? Why would anyone want to? And how the hell did he keep track of it all?
She pushed that aside. It wasn’t the way. If Roarke himself couldn’t hazard an educated guess on potential targets, how could she?
She went for coffee, using the short walk to the kitchen and back to clear her mind.
A personal vendetta. If that was the motive, why not go after the man himself? Or at least those in his inner circle?
Business. It was business. What were Roarke’s most pressing projects?
She went back to his data, rubbed her throbbing temples. It looked as though he was juggling several dozen green-lighted deals even now. It was enough to make you dizzy.
Olympus. That was his baby, she thought. A kind of pet fantasy, and as complicated as they came. He was building a goddamn world there: hotels, casinos, homes, resorts, parks. And all of it lavish.
Homes, she thought. Vacation and retirement homes. Villas, mansions, sleek penthouses, presidential suites. Something for the man who had, and could afford, everything.
Right up Yost’s alley.
She turned toward Roarke’s office, then stopped at the doorway.
He was at his console, captain of his ship. He’d drawn his hair back so it lay on his neck in a short, gleaming black tail. His eyes were cool, cool blue, the way they were when his mind was fully occupied.
He’d taken off his dinner jacket. His shirt was loose at the collar, the sleeves rolled up. There was something, just something about that look that always and forever grabbed her in the gut.
She could look at him for hours, and at the end of it still marvel that he belonged to her.
Someone wants to hurt you, she thought. I’m not going to let them.
He lifted his head. He’d scented her, or sensed her. He always did. Their eyes locked, and for a moment stayed locked. A thousand messages passed between them in absolute silence.
“Worrying about me won’t help you get your job done.”
“Who says I’m worried?”
He stayed where he was; simply held out his hand.
She crossed to him, took it, gripped hard. “When I met you,” she said carefully, “I didn’t want you in my life. You were one big complication. Every time I looked at you, or heard your voice, or so much as thought about you, the complication got bigger.”
“And now?”
“Now? You are my life.” She gave his hand one last squeeze, then released. “Okay, enough mushy stuff. Olympus.”
“What about it?”
“You’re selling property up there. Big fancy houses, snazzy apartments, and like that.”
“Marketing describes them with a bit more panache, but yes. Ah.” He clicked in before she spoke. “Sylvester Yost might enjoy the advantages of a comfortable off planet home in a self-contained community.”
“You could check it out. His pace of contracts in the past two years is up twelve percent. Could very well be a push for a nice, fat retirement nest. Best guess would be his Roles alias. It’s not an answer but it’s another link. Enough links you make a chain. Now.”
She walked around the console, sat on the edge of it to face him. “You’ve got partners, multinational, in the Olympus thing. Investors. Anybody unhappy, annoyed because you get the big slice of the pie?”
“There are occasionally bumps, but no. The project’s moving smoothly and on schedule. I took the biggest financial risk, and therefore will reap the largest profits. But the consortium’s satisfied. Returns on investments are already exceeding initial projections.”
She nodded. “All right. Here’s how it seems to me. If this is a business hit, the business is likely in New York. I’m thinking if it was business in, say, Australia, the hits would be in Australia. To draw you down there.”
“Yes, I’ve considered that.”
“First hit’s at your hotel, when it’s public knowledge you’ll be on-site. Second hit is in one of your rentals, and you’re in town and working minutes away. Give me a connection between Darlene French and Jonah Talbot.”
“I don’t have one.”
“No, you do. You’re just not seeing it. Neither am I.” In her mind, she switched to interview mode, and Roarke to witness. “Darlene French was a maid at your hotel. You had no personal contact with her?”
“None.”
“Who hired her?”
“She’d have submitted an application through the human resources department, and ultimately hired by Hilo.”
“You don’t supervise the hiring and firing?”
“I’d spend all my time doing so.”
“But it’s your hotel. Your organization.”
“I have departments,” he said with some impatience. “And the departments have heads. Those heads operate with the required autonomy. My organization, Lieutenant, is designed to run smoothly, on its particular internal wheels, so that—”
“Did Talbot have any tasks that involved The Palace?”
“None.” Frustration slipped into his eyes. He knew what she was doing, sliding him into the witness slot so that he would answer instinctively. And she did it well. “He never even stayed there. I checked. Certainly he would have had authors who did, and certainly he’d have entertained authors or business associates there for dinner or for lunch. But that hardly makes one of your links.”
“Maybe he hosted parties there. You know, professional spreads. Maybe he had one planned.”
“No. He might have attended some. The publicity department at the publishing house generally arranges that sort of function. There’s nothing on the slate I’m aware of. Magda’s display and auction are the showcase through the month.”
“Okay. Did he have anything to do with that?”
“The publishing house isn’t involved in the auction. Jonah acquired, edited, and published manuscripts. The hotel and its functions are entirely separate from . . .”
She all but heard the click. “What?”
“I’m an idiot,” he murmured and got to his feet. “Manuscripts. We’ll publish a disc, a new biography of Magda next month. There will also be a publication detailing the auction—each piece, its history and significance. Jonah would have been involved in those projects. I think it’s one of his authors who wrote the bio. He’d have edited it.”
“Magda.” Connections, possibilities, began to run through her brain. “She’s a link. That’s a solid link. Maybe you’re not the target at all. Maybe she is.”
“Maybe we both are. The auction.”
She held up a hand, pushing off the console so she could think on her feet. “Magda Lane in residence at The Palace. Your hotel. Holding one of the biggest events of her professional life there. Not at one of her own homes, not at one of the auction houses, but your hotel. Whose idea was that?”
“Hers. At
least she contacted me with it. It’s a media hook,” he added. “And it’s working.”
“How long has it been in the planning stage?”
“She contacted me over a year ago with the concept. You don’t put something of this scope together quickly.”
“That’s a lot of time for someone who wanted to mess up one or both of you to lay things out.” And Winifred Case had died in Paris eight months before. The smugglers in Cornwall, two months after that.
“Then your publishing house is putting out discs. What else is there? Security. Who are you closest to on the security team for the hotel and auction? Think it through, I want names. Your publicity wheel, too, and . . . Jesus, what goes into this sort of thing?”
“I’ll run it down by department and function.”
“On her end, we have her son, her business manager, and his wife. She’d have others.”
“I have those as well.”
“We’ll start there, do what can be done to protect those individuals.” She stopped, turned back. “But the pattern is the targets work for you, so they get priority.”
He was nodding, and already calling up his files on the auction.
“Roarke, what happens, to you personally, if this auction is a failure or some sort of scandal rises out of it?”
“Depends on what the failure or scandal might be. If it’s a financial disaster, I lose some money.”
“How much money?”
“Mmm. Conservative projections estimate the take at over five hundred million. Add sentiment and rabid fans of Magda’s, the media attention, and you may easily double that. Over and above the fee for the hotel and security, I get ten percent of the gross. But I’m donating that back to her foundation, so in actuality, the money isn’t an issue.”
“Not to you,” she murmured.
He shrugged that off. “I’ll transfer these names to your unit. I intend to arrange for my own security for my people. And for Magda’s.”
“I’ve got no problem with that.” Her eyes were narrowed, but she wasn’t seeing the data that whizzed by on the wall screen.
“Roarke, you’ve got potentially a billion dollars of merchandise displayed in a public hotel. Just how much would that merchandise go for, fenced?”