Page 10
She arrived with forty-five seconds to spare.
The dragon at Mira’s gate turned from her comp screen to give Eve a long, cool look.
“Did you lose anyone in the Urbans?”
The admin blinked, frowned. “I did. A brother.”
“I’m consulting with Dr. Mira over a case that goes back to the Urbans. Not here, in Europe, but—”
“It doesn’t matter where.” She tapped her earpiece. “Lieutenant Dallas is here. Yes, I will. Go right in.”
Mira sat at her desk. The department’s head shrink, top profiler, and all-around smart woman wore a silky suit in what Eve thought they called turquoise. Her rich brown hair fell in soft curls, a new style. Eve spotted little coral drops at her ears that matched the trio of strands around her neck.
With her soft blue eyes still on her screen, she lifted a hand.
“I’m reading your report a second time. It’s fascinating, and tragic. What a horrible loss, in a horrible way, for Summerset.”
“Yeah. This dredges it all up again, but…”
“No choice. And to be betrayed in this way by a kind of brother.” She turned in her chair, looked at Eve. “A man you believe may still be alive.”
“I take out the ‘may.’ It’s what clicks for me.”
“I understand why. And ask why did he wait so long?”
“I’ll ask him when I find him. I figure maybe he didn’t find someone corrupt enough to help him. Maybe it took him that long to figure out how to get out. The warden, who’s a pain in the ass, says he viewed the body, signed off, ordered the cremation and burial of the ashes.”
“You doubt that?”
“Not really. He’s a CYA type. But—you’re a medical doctor—aren’t there ways to simulate death? Especially to a lay person, and one who probably didn’t look too close.”
“Yes, there are. That would require a great deal of trust from the one being simulated.”
“What did he have to lose? He likes risk, he goes for the edge. He thinks he’s fucking smart.”
“He does. Sit.” Mira rose, walked on heels the exact color of her necklace to her AutoChef. Eve knew she’d get tea, and maybe that wasn’t so bad considering the amount of coffee she’d consumed before nine hundred hours.
“Conrad Potter. An egoist, a sociopath, and one who kills as much for pleasure as gain. As he has no sense of loyalty, he would have named names at his trial. It may have benefited him, and his own benefit is paramount. Intelligent, a skilled liar, a man also skilled in wearing masks, being whoever he needs to be to win. While he worked for the extremist group, Dominion, as well as the Underground, he had no loyalty to either of them. Ideology isn’t part of his makeup.”
“Whatever got him more.”
Mira handed Eve the delicate cup of tea, took her own, and sat in the twin scoop chair.
“And, I’d say, entertained him more. He played both sides, used one against the other, and it amused him. He stole because he could. Funds, weapons, supplies. Looking to the future. His own. Only his own.”
“He could’ve destroyed the other HQ. The Twelve.”
“He may have planned to. Things went wrong. But I believe he saw no purpose, no future there. The wars were ending. Those fringes remained. Dominion, with Flame, looked to burn it all down. Why would he want that? Why stockpile funds and so on if there’ll be nothing left?”
“So when Magpie found the HQ, when—what is it—Mole located the prison, he decided this was a way out. Destroy the HQ, break Dominion’s back, and take out his team at the same time. That works for me.”
“It may have worked for him, but Alice Dormer got in the way. She’s the hero of the piece.”
“He’s had five years to get to his money and the rest. They never got that out of him. Years to change his appearance, and skills in intelligence, in covert ops to use again. Just shake the dust off there.”
“If so, he likely targeted Rossi first, as Rossi found him first. And hurt him, physically, enough to prevent his escape.”
“Broken fingers. My card between them.”
“The killer—whether Potter or an agent of his—wants acknowledgment and a challenge. His ego doesn’t allow him to consider you’d best him. He’ll complete his mission, and then kill you.”
Mira sipped her tea.
“Which you’ve already concluded.”
“I’ve concluded that’s the plan. I’ll be screwing up those plans.”
“I’m depending on it. Don’t underestimate him, Eve. The killer is highly intelligent, a risk seeker, yes, but very skilled. He’s organized, well-funded, plans carefully. His plans are convoluted, but he enjoys that. Puzzles that take time to solve, add complications for him, but how clever is he? He loves the complications, the superiority of creating them, rather than the quick, clean, and simple kill.”
“Who are you profiling? The killer or Potter?”
Mira shifted, recrossed her excellent legs. “It fits both. Or, if you’re right, only has to fit one.”
“Potter has all the motivation. A vendetta decades in the making. The others lived full lives, could go where they wanted, do as they pleased. He didn’t, couldn’t. Because they stopped him.
“The way he killed Rossi—the poison gas for Wasp.”
“A deliberate choice. The deliberation would appeal to him. An entertaining death for him.”
“He needs a place. He’d want something upscale or at least roomy, wouldn’t he, after prison?”
“Very likely.”
Tiny pieces, Eve thought. Speculative, but tiny pieces.
“I don’t know how long he’s been in New York, so I don’t have a way to whittle down possibilities. He had to have a place to stash the limo. So maybe he has a place with a garage, or rented a garage.
“I know who he is. I know what he is. But it’s not enough.”
“You hope to learn more from Summerset’s teammates.”
“I don’t know how much they can tell me, but they’ll be where he can’t get to them. He’ll expect them to come to New York. I think. But he wouldn’t expect them to come this soon.”
“Don’t underestimate him,” Mira said again.
“I won’t. I don’t. Summerset said the last time they were all together was for Rabbit’s funeral. Wouldn’t he assume they’d all show up for Wasp?”
“Very possibly. Are you planning a trip?”
“Maybe. I’m going to delay releasing the body another day. I want DeWinter’s report on the old injuries in any case.”
“Because you’d rather he come to you, on your ground.”
“I don’t think he wants to wait too long. He knows the others are smart, experienced, skilled. Rossi didn’t have any warning. But he’ll know they will.”
“Because he set it up just that way.”
Eve nodded. “He did. He could’ve killed Rossi another way. Lots of other ways that wouldn’t have tied to him, or the Urbans. He wants them to know he’s coming for them.”
“And when it’s done, for you?”
“Well, it’s not going to get done, so he’ll be disappointed.”
Eve set the tea aside. “I have to brief Whitney. This has been helpful. I appreciate it.”
“Keep me in the loop. I’d like to be more helpful if I can.”
“I will.” Rising, Eve took another moment. “I have no reason to believe any of the others were part of the betrayal. But I’ll send you copies of the interviews, if you have time to go over them. In case I miss something.”
“I can’t imagine you will, but yes, I’ll make time.” Mira rose as well. “Be careful with this one, Eve. You, Roarke, all of you. Sharks hunt and kill. When there’s blood in the water, they don’t stop.”
“Then I’ll have to make sure the only blood in the water is his.”
Since the consult with Mira had given her more to think about, she decided to let it sit in the back of her brain until she’d briefed Whitney.
She took the glides, and pulled out her ’link to look at a text from Peabody.
DeWinter’s on deck. I read the report, and I have to use another Holy Shit!
“Yeah, it’s worth one.” She shoved the ’link back in her pocket and muttered to herself, “Because the arrogant fuck’s alive.”
“Language!” A woman on the down glide sent her a look that translated to “tsk-tsk.”
“Lady, you’re in a cop shop.”
That got a humph—an actual humph—before Eve reached the top of her glide.
“Yeah, my language really matters when I’ve got an escaped war criminal killer in New York.” She strode toward Whitney’s office, and his admin.
“I requested a meet with the commander after my consult with Dr. Mira. Is he available?”
“They’re waiting for you.” He also tapped his earpiece. “Dallas is here, sir.”
The admin just gestured to the double doors.
She walked in not only to Whitney but to the chief of police.
Tibble, tall and lean in his slate-gray suit, rose from his chair when she entered. He was a dark-complected, cool-eyed man who wore his duties as he did his suit.
Smoothly.
“Lieutenant, the commander has briefed me on your investigation, including your latest theories and findings.”
“Yes, sir.”
He didn’t smile at her response, but a hint of amusement flickered. “No doubt you want to keep these details as contained as possible. I assume you’d trust me to keep the lid on.”
“Of course, sir. Absolutely.”
“Then why don’t we all sit down, and you can reiterate for us why you believe Conrad Potter is not only alive but in New York and is your prime suspect in the Rossi murder.”
She preferred staying on her feet, but sat as both Tibble and Whitney did.
“The prison warden states that Potter’s sudden death was a result of an undetected brain tumor. He states that he viewed the body in the prison’s surgery and signed off on the death, approved the cremation.”
“You don’t believe him,” Whitney said. “Do you believe Warden Meedy conspired with Potter in his escape?”
“I believe he viewed the body, signed off, and ordered the cremation. I don’t believe the body he viewed was, in fact, deceased. There are medical methods to simulate death. The doctor, Martin J. Pierce, resigned only a few weeks afterward. I can find no record such an individual existed. I strongly suspect Potter bribed Pierce to aid him in faking his death.”
“With what?” Tibble asked.
“Potter was reputed to have amassed funds, weapons, supplies before his capture and imprisonment.”
“It’s difficult to access those from a prison.”
“Sir. He had over thirty years to figure out just how to do that. I believe he found a way, conspired with Pierce. With his take, Pierce then wiped his data, his records, his existence, and created another identity.”
“It sounds more like a spy novel than reality.”
“Potter is a spy, highly trained, highly intelligent and organized. Dr. Mira’s profile terms him a sociopath, a skilled liar, and one who believes himself better, smarter, and more skilled than anyone else. A risk taker who enjoys creating complicated puzzles. He needs to win, and he’s had decades to plan his game.”
“You have a relationship with one of the targets, with a man whose wife Potter killed. Your card was left on the body of the victim. I have to question if these factors might influence your thinking.”
She’d known that was coming since Tibble rose from his chair.
“A facsimile of my card, Chief Tibble. Potter isn’t as clever as he thinks. Summerset is a target, as are the remaining members of what was known as The Twelve. But he, and they, are valuable sources in this investigation. Facts influence my thinking, as do the opinions and conclusions of the experts I consult. Dr. Mira’s profiles of Rossi’s killer and Potter line right up.
“In addition, I’ve asked Captain Feeney to use EDD’s resources to find the prison doctor, or to verify that his data was wiped. I’ve requested Inspector Abernathy, Interpol, to consider the matter of Potter’s death and expedite an exhumation of the ashes so that Dr. DeWinter can determine, through DNA testing, if they are Potter’s.”
Tibble listened silently through the steps.
“You’re putting a lot of time, effort, and resources into this single theory, Lieutenant.”
“There were twelve, sir. One was a traitor so there were eleven. One died of natural causes and three have been murdered. So there are seven. Seven who fought and risked and sacrificed. He wants them dead, so yes, sir, I will put all the time, effort, and resources as are available to me into identifying, finding, and capturing him before another life is taken.”
Tibble nodded, glanced at Whitney. “You were right, Jack, she makes her case, convoluted as it is. You know, I’m not pleased to have a war criminal in my city bent on murder.”
“I’m not real happy about it myself. Sir.”
“You’ll have to get the bastard, Lieutenant. I may have a string or two to pull to get you that exhumation.”
“I—” Before she could finish, her ’link signaled, and Tibble gave her the go-ahead.
“It’s Inspector Abernathy.”
“Take it.”
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant. I tell myself this is lunacy, but doubts niggle.”
“Are you getting me the ashes?” And she couldn’t help it. She stood, began to pace.
“Understand, I’ve now put my arse in a sling, and I don’t care for my arse in a sling.”
“Abernathy.”
“I spoke with Warden Meedy. He’s a bit of a bell-end, isn’t he?”
“If that’s Brit for asshole , yeah, more than a bit. Are you getting me the ashes?”
“I have an order of exhumation. I have to personally witness the ex humation, take possession of the ashes. Which means going to bloody Manchester, so add that to the pile.”
“That’s great. Gratitude. How long will it take?”
“I don’t believe you understand or appreciate the various channels of bureaucracy that have to be navigated to send exhumed human remains from bloody Manchester to New York.”
“We’ve got red tape on this side of the Atlantic, too. When will I get them?”
He only sighed. “I’m already en route. I expect they’ll be in the hands of the special courier by six, who will then transport them to New York.”
“Is that six over there? With the planet doing the revolving crap? Or real time?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind.” She’d do the math. “I’m going to give you the name and location for delivery. Dr. Garnet DeWinter,” Eve began, and gave him the rest.
“She’ll need to receive them personally, and have the proper identification and paperwork.”
“She will. You know, this is your guy who broke out of your prison over there killing people over here. But I appreciate your help.”
“That’s generous of you.” Sarcasm dripped. “You’d best not be wrong.”
“I’m not wrong, and it’s going on your record with Interpol that you assisted in the recapture of a war criminal. It’ll be worth a trip to bloody Manchester. I’ll be in touch.”
When she clicked off, Whitney gave her a steady look, and a hint of smile. “Depending on the type of transportation used, the remains should be with DeWinter between four or five this evening. Barring delays.”
“I’ll inform her.”
“My strings, such as they are, won’t need to be pulled.” Tibble rose. “I’ll speak with Dr. DeWinter, and expedite the necessary bureaucracy on our end.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I might question the wisdom of bringing all potential targets into your home, but I’ve been to your home.”
“They’ll be safe there, Chief. And accessible.”
“Make it so. Commander, keep me updated. Twenty-four/seven on this one.”
“You can count on that.”
“Lieutenant, I know you’ll consider no good deed goes unpunished, but when this breaks, when you have him, you’ll be required to do media conferences. International media conferences.”
Her stomach just sank. “Yes, sir.”
He flashed a grin—rare and brilliant. “No good deed.”
When he left, Whitney walked to his window. “You made your case in your report, which Chief Tibble read. He needed to see you make it.” He turned back. “You’re not wrong on Potter.”
“No, sir.”
“No, you’re not wrong. So go get him. Dismissed.”
She walked out feeling as if she’d just passed one of those pop quizzes they tortured you with in school.
Then she pushed that aside and detoured to EDD.
Two trips to the circus within about twenty-four hours was almost more than the average system could bear. To keep hers from shorting out, she turned straight into the dull normal of Feeney’s office.
He sat at his desk, his brown tie askew—and the small stain on it, Eve suspected, came from the coffee he swigged.
He wore an expression she’d seen on Roarke. Irritated work mode. Pissed-off e-geek.
“Fucking fucker,” he muttered, then spotted her.
“Sorry, bad timing. I’ll come back.”
He lifted his hand, made a sharp—yes, irritated—come-in gesture. “I’m taking five anyway. Fucking fucker.”
“I know I dumped a lot on you, so—”
“How the fuck does some prison sawbones know how to poof, and poof clean as fuck?”
So, Eve realized, he’d taken Pierce himself. A matter of pride.
“He had help. I think help from someone with serious skills, and financial backing.”
“I tagged that asshole warden. Merry old England, my ass. Guy’s a lazy, stuffed shirt prick.”
“Yeah, he is.”
“But after a couple rounds I got Pierce’s HR file, and his prison ID shot. And still can’t find the slippery son of a bitch. But I will,” he added, then popped a candied almond.
“I dumped a lot on you,” she began again, and he shot a finger at her.
“If I need Roarke, I’ll pull on him myself. Got that?”
And she knew prickly geek pride when he snarled at her.
“Got it. I want to fill you in on why I dumped this on you. I need to close the door.”
She did so, then crossed over to his desk.
“The victim, Giovanni Rossi, was part of an elite team of covert agents attached to the Underground, with their HQ in London during the Urbans. Though I believe he continued his covert work, in Italy, his murder’s tied to the first. Back to the Urbans.”
“So you figured, and I agree. The gas canister, the method, and all that.”
“Right. I learned last night Summerset was part of that team of covert agents. And why don’t you look surprised?”
“A little surprised, maybe. But his background’s real smooth.” Feeney slid the flat of his hand in the air. “Smooth, with just the right amount of little bumps so nobody’d look twice. No fingerprints to show it’s been messed with. Roarke’s good. So you gotta figure something’s there.”
“You did a run on Summerset?”
Shrugging, looking mildly uncomfortable, Feeney picked out another almond. “You’re moving in with some rich-ass guy—he was pretty much just some rich-ass guy when you did—who’s got this other guy doing like a butler thing? Yeah, I’m going to do some checking.”
He jabbed a finger at her. “Didn’t you?”
“Yeah, but—”
“I’m figuring, since Roarke’s not just some rich-ass guy, he told you about it.”
“Some of it. He didn’t know all of it, either. I’m going to tell you what I can, and where the investigation stands as of now.”
“Okay.”
She sat on the edge of his desk, and in the shorthand of partners, filled him in.
“I’m going to say I’m sorry, really goddamn sorry, about Summerset’s wife. That’s a hell of a thing. I’m going to say it’s risky bringing all those targets to one place.”
“I know it.”
“Riskier for them to stay scattered, so I’d’ve done the same. They’re going to know this guy as well as anyone’s gonna. Marjorie Wright. Man, I never saw that coming. I had a picture of her taped inside my locker door at the Academy.”
“You— Really?”
“Before Sheila,” he added, and looked more nostalgic than embarrassed. “A boy’s gotta dream. Anyway, I’m going to give your Potter’s alive a probability in the high nineties. Can’t give you the hundred. You need that DNA.”
“I’ll take high nineties. The computer gave me mid-sixties, but I didn’t have time to run another after I found out Pierce had poofed.”
“That’ll up it. But comps don’t have a gut. Considering, if I don’t get a good scent inside the next hour, I’ll tap Roarke. But… Potter, how old would he be?”
“Seventy-eight.”
Feeney shook his head. “The driver, more like mid to late fifties. I don’t know if face work can carve off twenty years. Hell, people’d be getting worked on instead of buying food. I got McNab—he wanted a piece of this—and Callendar working on the face. They should be able to detect makeup, face putty, with enough filters and enhancements. But, well, everybody over forty’d be walking around with putty and all that if it takes two decades off.
“A hire’s more likely.”
“More likely,” she agreed. “To do the pickup, show the card, get Rossi in the limo. But Potter would want to do the kill himself. He’d need to.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“I’ll get out of your way.”
“I’m going to find this fucker.”
“I’d put money on it.” She opened the door just as McNab—Callendar beside him—raised his hand to knock.
“Hey, Dallas, good timing. Cap, we need a minute, okay?”
He did his come-ahead, but not sharp and irritated. “What you got?”
They stepped in, McNab’s baggies a screaming green, his airboots canary yellow. Callendar’s sported a pattern that made Eve think of some mad witch’s garden. On Mars. In contrast her kicks were an almost subtle blue, if you discounted the bright orange laces on the left, the candy pink on the right.
“What we got,” McNab began, “is hinky.”
“What kind of hinky?”
“Maximum smooth hinky.” Callendar answered Feeney, and shoved her hands into two of her many pockets. “We started with the standard OCS, added the combined filters, mostly for shits and giggles, then boosted that with some NL beams.”
“Good choice. Did you push on F-10—not the F-8?”
“We went up to that.”
McNab picked up the e-speak, and Eve tuned it out before her brain collapsed and died.
When the cross-talk became too much to tune out, Eve lifted her hands. “Dumb it down. In the name of tiny baby Jesus, dumb it down for someone outside your species.”
“Too smooth,” Callendar said.
“I got that. Maximum smooth hinky.”
“I didn’t mean that. What we’re saying is, the face. Too smooth. It’s like faces have flaws, right? Or something. A freckle, a blemish, something. But not this guy.”
“He’s got a few lines, right?” McNab said. “Eye corners, expression lines, but the smooth is there. You can cover the flaws, get me, with enhancements, but we’re not detecting any enhancements, or not enough to show.”
“We want to bring in Carmine from the main lab.”
“Who’s Carmine?” Eve demanded.
“Solid tech,” McNab told her. “He’s mega solid on flesh, face structure with it. Like he’s got a way of detecting if you had a nose job or whatever when you were twenty.”
“He’s not Harvo, Queen of Hair and Fiber,” Callendar put in. “But he could be, say, a prince of skin and flesh. It’s hinky, Cap, and we need Carmine. You gotta figure the guy had face work, right? He doesn’t pop for us, so he changed his face. Carmine could maybe see more what and where, and find the hinky.”
“They say they need Carmine,” Feeney said to Eve, “they need Carmine.”
“Okay.” She didn’t like spreading it out, but she needed answers. “Pull him in. I’ve got to get out of here. Anybody hits anything, tag me.”
She escaped.
She needed five minutes, just five minutes of absolute quiet in her office, in her own space—alone. Then another five to let all the information, opinions, questions, and conclusions settle in.
Since she couldn’t even think about jamming herself in an elevator, she stuck with the glides.
In the bullpen, Jenkinson wasn’t at his desk, so no assault by tie. She saw Quilla huddled with Baxter at his.
She looked at him, Eve noted, as if every word out of his mouth fascinated.
Either it did, or she was damn good playing to a man’s ego. And Eve wasn’t sure which she hoped it was.
Before Peabody could speak, Eve held up a hand. “Unless it breaks this case open, I need ten.”
“It doesn’t. I sent you two full backgrounds, and I’m finishing the third.”
“Good. I need ten.”
She went to her office, to the coffee. And drinking, let the quiet slide over her.
She could wish more fieldwork was required, more angles that took her out, put her on the street. Her last major case involved plenty of that. This one? More a head game.
Easier on the boots, she supposed. But the closet fairy always had another pair waiting.
She walked to her window, drank her coffee while she looked out, scanned her view of New York.
“Where the hell are you? You’re out there. I know you’re out there. And I’ll find you.”