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She wanted to get to work, but people sat around, drinking wine, eating cheese. Talking.
Maybe she didn’t have the finest social skills—no maybe there—but this wasn’t a party. Sure, the talk was case related, but they weren’t cops. And the way Marjorie and Ivanna had their heads together, they might’ve been talking about shoes. Or hairstyles. Or whatever the hell.
Wrap it up, Eve thought. Move them out.
“That’s all I can tell you for now,” she began.
“We’ve had a lovely day.” Marjorie rose. “Despite the circumstances. It’s difficult not to enjoy gathering with good friends in such a beautiful home. Iris held some virtual meetings, I read an interesting script. We made use of the pool, the game room. I still say you cheated, Harry.”
“You’ll never prove it, Red.”
“Rematch,” Cyril demanded.
“Anytime, mate.”
“I’m looking forward to the kotleta po Kyivsky Summerset’s promised us for dinner. It’s been a lovely, bittersweet reunion, and only strengthened the bond forged so long ago.”
“Good, that’s good. Now, I need to—”
“And that’s enough of that,” Marjorie interrupted. “Put us to work.”
“Ah—”
“You have seven intelligence operatives at your disposal, all with a vested interest in locating Conrad Potter, in making bloody well sure he’s put back where he belongs.”
“Or ends up in the ground,” Cyril muttered.
“I’d not shed a tear. But my point is we’re useful. Use us. We have here decades of experience. We have skills, and those of us who need to can blow the dust off those skills quickly enough.”
“We may be twice your age, Lieutenant,” Summerset put in, “but in this case, that’s our advantage.”
“You know him,” Ivanna said. “That’s clear, and impressive. But you haven’t interacted with him, worked with him, fought with him as we have.”
“Thirty-odd years ago,” Eve pointed out.
“As you said,” Iris reminded her, “he’s stuck in the past. We are his past.”
“You’re looking for a location.” Cyril rose, topped off his wine. “Single-family, with garage. You say the west side of the city. You conclude that, I take it, since he’s struck on the opposite side. He’d want that distance. Though it would be simpler for him to scout and select his spots if he had his HQ closer to the area, he’d believe you’d assume that and concentrate your efforts there. I agree with your conclusion. West.”
“Looking for his car,” Harry continued, and scratched Galahad behind the ears. “Would be a car—not a lorry, not a van. Sedan. Black first choice. Possible on gray or dark blue. And you’re right about the make. It’s like… lineage. He’d want what was around before he went inside.”
“Mercedes, BMW, Bentley, or Cadillac. Not only for performance and style,” Summerset added, “but the longevity of the brand.”
“Not the Bentley.” Ivan offered an apologetic smile. “He’d enjoy the status, but he considered British-made shite, or so he said. And, excuse me, but that make’s more unusual on this side of the pond, and he needs to blend more. To be admired, envied, but also to blend.”
“Quite right.” Summerset nodded. “You’re quite right. We’re not victims, Lieutenant. We’re not marks.”
“We’re weapons,” Marjorie finished. “Use us.”
Regulations and logic pushed her in one direction. Instinct pushed her in the other. If she’d put more weight on instinct than logic, procedure, Potter would be in custody.
Going with instinct, she turned to Roarke. “Can you set them up in the comp lab?”
“I can.”
“Get something to eat. Lay off the wine. Cyril, Summerset, on the house, west side. Entire west side. Marjorie, Ivanna, the house, east. Iris, house, central. Ivan, Harry, vehicle.
“Start with the most probable, then work back. Townhomes, warehouses.” She looked at Harry. “Top sedans, all-terrains. He needed time to set up, establish himself, learn the city. Go back eighteen months. Two years if nothing hits. He couldn’t wait longer than that to start.”
“Yes, you know him,” Marjorie murmured.
“He had to use private transportation to smuggle the weapons to New York.”
She spared Summerset a glance. “I’m aware.”
“Yes, of course.”
“I want results as they come. Go, eat dinner. Whatever the hell kotleta po something is.”
“Ukrainian,” Summerset said, and rose.
“I’ll have the lab set up for you when you’re done,” Roarke told them as they made their way out. “You made the right choice,” he said to Eve.
“It’ll keep them occupied anyway.”
“Marjorie made a solid case.”
“Okay, yeah.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I don’t want them to feel like victims.” She dropped her hands. “And I sure as hell don’t want them to be victims.”
“You need food, and we’ll get started.”
“I don’t want Ukrainian. I want pizza. I should get pizza. I’ve been shot.”
“Oh, again now you’ve been ‘shot,’ not ‘at.’”
“You made such a big deal out of it, I should be able to use it awhile.”
“Then rather than sitting at your command center with a slice in one hand while you work, you’ll sit at the table and eat. Since you’ve been shot.”
“That’s the petard deal again.”
He kissed her cheek and said, “Boom.”
But it would give her time to think, and time for her own search to push out some results.
She fed the cat while he got the pizza. Then sat with a slice and a Pepsi.
“I need successful, high-end smugglers who have good private transpo, connections in Britain and New York, and a rep for keeping their mouths shut.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Financials—”
“Ah.” Lifting a finger, he glanced up. “I hear music.”
“He may, likely did, stash some solid cash with the weapons. But that’s running money, not millions. So he had an account somewhere. Somewhere they don’t blink if you stuff in those millions. Somewhere they don’t look too hard at where it comes from.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he repeated. “We are talking three decades, and as he was in prison, that account would have remained open, and likely untouched for the majority of that time. But…”
“Yeah, he found a way to access it.”
“Them,” Roarke corrected. “Not only foolish to put all in one account, but it wouldn’t fit his profile, would it? At least two—depending on how much he had. I’d assume three, in various locations.”
“He had enough e-skills, enough time, to work a way. Get access to a comp. Pierce could’ve been helpful there. And if Abernathy would tag me back, I’d know.”
“So a transfer of considerable roughly five years back. That’s a thread to pull.”
“I should’ve asked you to pull it before.”
“Been a bit busy the last few days, haven’t we? Don’t diminish what you’ve accomplished.” He put another slice on her plate.
“Why do people say going down a rabbit hole?”
“Well now, there’s a segue. A reference to Alice in Wonderland . The White Rabbit. She went down after him.”
“Right. Right. That sort of makes sense. Maybe I went down the rabbit hole.”
“And if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t know Potter is alive, and the seven downstairs wouldn’t be enjoying what translates to chicken Kiev. You’re talking about his puzzles, Eve, and putting them back together again your way.”
“He’s still ahead of me.”
“I’d wager heavily not for long.”
“How long’s the problem. He’s planning something, or he’s already got it in the works.”
Potter had taken the next step in his plan even while Eve debriefed her team at Central.
Once he’d calmed himself, he understood he could use the rain. He changed out of his wet suit and into more casual clothes, added a black mac, and as a precaution, a gray wig.
He disliked the gray, but for this mission, he wanted to look old, and harmless. Thinking just that, he added a few lines to his face, softened his jawline.
Harmless, he decided as he studied the result. Just someone’s harmless grandfather out in the rain.
He’d planned to do this—his crescendo—at night. A streetwalker, a woman alone. But this would be so much more invigorating, so much more effective.
He took what he needed to the garage, to the car, then drove out once again in the rain.
Driving carefully, he hummed to himself. He’d scouted the area before when selecting the best dump spot for Rossi. It hadn’t suited that need, but would suit his current purpose very well.
And it was nearly as far away from his HQ as he could get and remain on the island of Manhattan.
It took time, but he ordered himself not to lose patience. His gaze ticked right and left. He’d been smart to use the rain! Fewer pedestrians, and all of them rushing along, paying no attention to what happened around them.
Busy, busy.
And so would he be busy, very soon.
The little park he’d cased before with all the sticky-fingered, shrieking children was deserted now. No watchful nannies or parents. There, the empty building, and no workers replacing windows, no workers’ trucks parked today.
He made use of the short alleyway beside it, checked the time.
Yes, yes, perfect. School’s out and most of the little buggers on their way home. He needed a young one, but not so young a parent or nanny walked with them.
He needed one who trailed behind, a bad little boy or girl who’d had to stay after school. Or a good one who’d had some ridiculous activity.
But who lived close enough to walk home. Alone.
Ten minutes, fifteen. He watched schoolchildren hurry by, but in twos or threes, or even bigger groups.
Fifteen minutes, twenty. And the impatience began crawling through him like hissing snakes.
The next pair that walked by. The very next, he promised himself. He’d grab the smallest of the two. And the other?
He had his knife.
Then, positioned in the wet gloom at the side of the building, he saw his target.
Alone, splashing along in puddles, wearing a bright yellow mac. A red backpack, and some sort of case—musical instrument—in his hand.
Leaning heavily on the cane he’d brought as a prop, Potter stepped into view.
“Young man? Could you help me?”
Potter put on his most harmless smile as the boy glanced over.
“Oh! There she is now!”
As the boy turned his head to look where Potter pointed, Potter jabbed the pressure syringe on the side of his neck.
With barely a sound, the boy went limp.
Potter simply took his weight, kicked the case into the alley. He rolled the unconscious boy into the trunk, slammed it shut.
Pleased, flushed with success, he began the drive back uptown. He calculated the boy would be out at least two hours, giving him plenty of time to do what he needed to do.
Twenty minutes later, as Potter crept along in crosstown traffic, Devin McReedy’s mother, more annoyed than concerned, began calling Devin’s friends.
She’d told him to come straight home after orchestra practice, but sometimes…
Ten minutes later, concern edged out annoyance.
She paced, window to window, sure she’d see her oldest coming down the sidewalk any minute.
Five minutes later, she looked back at her youngest, cuddled up on the sofa watching an animated vid on-screen. She and her husband had taken turns with him through the night. A night they’d all spent primarily in the bathroom as the poor kid suffered with the stupid stomach bug going around.
She walked over to lay a hand on his forehead. Cool.
“I feel better,” Silas told her, and gave her the smile she loved. “I’m hungry.”
An excellent sign, she thought. Devin had had the same bug a couple of days before. Twenty-four-hour deal.
“You look lots better. I have to run out, just two minutes. And when I come back, I’ll fix you a snack.”
“Peanut butter cheesies?”
“Peanut butter cheesies. You stay right here. Don’t answer the door.”
“Mom! I know!”
“I know you know. Two minutes.”
She grabbed an umbrella, hurried out.
To offset the grinding worry, she told herself she was giving Devin the what-for when she found him. Probably taking a swing or a slide in the park in the damn rain.
“Oh, you’re in for it, my man.”
But her stomach stayed knotted, and panic tickled at her throat.
When she saw the violin case at the mouth of the alley, her knees gave way.
By then, Devin, ankles and wrists zip-tied, lay unconscious in the windowless basement storage room while Potter completed his preparations.
A little more time, he thought, and the remains of The Twelve were in for a big surprise.
With coffee, Eve worked at her command center. Roarke had set up the group in the comp lab and now worked on his part in his office.
As initial results came in, she dug into them. Eliminated or put on a potentials list.
She cross-checked those with the potentials list from season ticket holders for opera and ballet.
When her ’link signaled, she read ABERNATHY .
“Finally.” She snatched it up. “Dallas. What the fuck—I’ve tagged you a half dozen times.”
“And I had nothing to tell you. We got a confession out of Pierce—he broke fast and easy. But he knows little to nothing regarding Potter, nothing that advances your investigation.”
“How about I judge what advances my investigation? How’d he get the payoff?”
“Potter transferred ten million—in five-million installments—to an offshore account Pierce opened on his instructions. He used Pierce’s personal comp to make the transfer, which, on Potter’s instructions, he then destroyed. Potter, with Pierce’s help, used the prison’s own bloody equipment to fabricate Pierce’s new ID and background.”
Wincing, Abernathy rubbed at the back of his neck. “I need a vacation. Pierce executed the plan, gave Potter the drug, brought the warden in to verify the death. He brought Potter out of it, smuggled him out of prison in his own shagging car.”
Abernathy sighed. “He’s lucky Potter didn’t kill him on the spot.”
“He still needed him.”
“You’re right, and Pierce saw it through. Used some ashes from another dead inmate, sealed it up, labeled it, saw it buried. Potter had given him the name of a doctor who’d match the ID—just a few changes. We’d pull her in, but she’s been dead two years. And with a fresh new look and ID, and a fat account, Pierce headed to Costa Rica.”
“Where did the funds come from? Transferred from where?”
“We’re trying to run that down. Pierce doesn’t know. He’d have spilled it all if he did. Potter didn’t tell him where he was going, what he was planning. Why would he? Pierce, and he got sloppy with it, tried to claim he believed Potter was an unjustly persecuted war hero. That’s bollocks, but a man has to try.”
“I want to see the interview recording.”
“Considering all, I’m sending it to you. We included your questions, Lieutenant, and this is what we have. And the fact is, if Potter had told him anything—”
“It would be bollocks,” Eve finished. “I still want to see it.”
“I’ll send it. We greatly appreciate your help. Interpol is also on the hunt for Conrad Potter.”
“I don’t care who gets him first, as long as he’s got.”
“If you’d pass on any updates—”
“As soon as I can. I’m up to my neck. Dallas out.”
She sat back, gulped some coffee. As more results came in from Roarke’s comp lab, she thought: They’re efficient. And got back to work.
She surfaced again when Roarke entered her office. With a first aid kit.
“I already had medical treatment.”
“You’re about to get more. I’m changing the bandage, putting a topical on it, as I know full well it’s hurting you again. You’re taking a blocker as well. And for being a good girl—”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously, I’ll tell you what I know so far.”
“This isn’t something to screw around with. I’ve got a couple of maybes on my cross-checks.”
“Neither is a gunshot wound anything to screw around with.”
To solve the matter, he lifted her shirt.
“Don’t you get tired of playing Nurse Nancy?”
“I can’t begin.” He eased the bandage away. “No sign of infection,” he said, and laid a hand, gently, on it. “No heat. See?”
“I’d pop you one but you’re so pretty.”
“Here now.” He spread on the topical.
The pain she’d ignored eased off.
“Okay, good. Why do I need the blocker?”
“For the headache, for the knots in your shoulders, for the pain in your neck.”
“Right now you’re the pain in my neck.”
“And I walked straight into it.” He finished the fresh bandage, handed her a blocker.
“What do you know?”
He sat on the edge of her command center, commandeered her coffee. “A former associate has a colleague who heard of a competitor—”
“Just say smugglers.”
“My word was there would be no names given, and no record of the conversation.”
“Agreed. Classic anonymous tip if needed.”
“After a check of files, which the competitor of the colleague of the associate—former—keeps unknown to his clients, transportation was booked, sixteen months ago, under the name Carson Wells. The man who traveled from Calais to a small island off the coast of Maine—”
“Maine?”
Roarke held up a hand. “A place sometimes used by the competitor for this sort of transportation. The passenger matches the third sketch, or closely enough. The client is remembered for having three large crates, electronic equipment, and considerable luggage, for requesting a bottle of French wine and escargot for the flight.”
“You’re not kidding me.”
“I’m not, no. The passenger had an SUV waiting. The pilot doesn’t remember make or model, but helped load the crates and so on into the SUV. The client paid cash rather than a wire transfer. He paid in full, and the competitor went on his way.”
“He drives down from the coast of Maine—SUV’s probably gone by now. He wouldn’t keep it. He’s already got the house.”
She rose, paced. “He needs somewhere to go, to stay. Sixteen months ago. Sixteen. That’s right in there. He bought or rented the house remotely. We’ll factor that in now. He had to hire someone to help him unload when he got there.”
“Or he bought a couple of droids. He needs the house maintained.”
“And wouldn’t have live domestics. This is good. A timeline. We can use this. And I can add it into my cross-checks. We add the timeline to check on the barbers and so on.”
“For now? The financials. Starting in the Urbans era with his birth name—challenging.”
“And?”
“He likes complications, and has some skill. Some records simply don’t exist any longer from that period, as war will make things sketchy. But those that do? Two accounts under his name so far. Moderate, in the range you’d expect. A third, and very well buried, under—you’ll like this—Feeding Frenzy Productions.”
“Sharks.”
“Exactly. While the records are full of gaps, what I did find was considerably more than moderate. Its value today? Round and about twelve million.”
“A hell of a lot more than he’d make in the military or working for the cops.”
“It is, yes. Gaps, as I said, months when no records exist, but I did find those that included five- and six-figure deposits. Then, nothing.”
“What do you mean nothing?”
“No account. Closed. Gone. No record of withdrawal or transfer, which may fall into one of those gaps. I tried another tack, picking back from Pierce’s account. Complications. Whatever Potter lacks, he has excellent skills in hiding funds, no doubt laundering it, creating identities, backgrounds, mixing the bogus with the genuine.”
“Tell me you’re better.”
“Well now, false modesty’s so tedious, isn’t it?” He smiled, tapped a finger to the shallow dent in her chin. “It took some work, but Pierce’s payoff came from a numbered account, which bounced through two others before it landed.”
“Did you get a name, any kind of contact?”
“Bogus again, but with some persistence, I tracked one of those accounts back to Feeding Frenzy Productions. And in backtracking, circling, persisting, I found yet one more account. The name on that—tucked into the Caymans—matches the name he gave the Realtor today.”
“Which is bogus.”
“It is, yes. But I can tell you Potter came out of prison, after the payoff, with twenty-eight million and change, and whatever cash he might have secreted away. Those accounts have been active all this time, so growing.”
“He’d have been stealing and taking payoffs for years. Probably before the Urbans.”
“Very likely. I have the names for you, the addresses and contacts given. None are in New York, but may, with persistence, give you more. The accounts themselves, beginning five years ago, have records of withdrawals and transfers.”
Shifting around her, he programmed more coffee for both of them.
“I suspect he paid the cosmetic surgeon in cash. He transferred a million to an account in Bath—that’s England—under a week after his escape. Zeroed it out only days later.”
“Got the face work, paid, took the rest in cash for himself.”
“Another transfer within the month. He bought a flat in Paris. My analysis says he used primarily cash for expenses, one or two small with drawals, and lived there about two years. Sold the flat—made a tidy profit there. I imagine he used that profit, and another transfer, for the villa on the French Riviera. Saint-Tropez. Which he sold, again at a profit, eighteen months ago.”
“That’s a trail. Those are dots to connect.”
“They are, yes. But from that point, complications I haven’t yet unraveled. He zeroed out two of the accounts, hasn’t touched the third I found. And wherever he put those funds I’ve yet to find.”
“Cash? How much would he have?”
“Not counting the six million or so in the untouched account, taking out the smuggler’s as well as what he laid out the last few years? Maybe eighteen. Possibly twenty.”
“Million. But he didn’t pay cash for the place here.”
“Highly unlikely. Even if he’s renting it… and previous pattern is buying. If it is a house, as you believe, one with a garage.”
“With top-of-the-line security, in a good neighborhood, upscale. Nothing that needed repairs—he’s not having a crew in there.”
“If it’s a purchase?” Roarke shrugged. “Depending on the square footage and a myriad of other factors? Three million to easily five times that.”
“Not the low or high end. Double, maybe triple the three. And he had to buy a car, droids, furniture.”
She pushed up to pace. “From Manchester to the Bath place, to Paris, to the Riviera, to Calais, to Maine, and finally to New York. That’s a goddamn solid trail, with a timeline, and we’ll find something on it.”
She turned back to him. “You’re way ahead of Interpol.”
“Well now.” He sipped some coffee. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“Bet. Get me the names he used. I’ll dig into them, check them with what I’ve got on fancy theater. You said he’s good at forging IDs, backgrounds, but why keep generating them? Why not use one already established, like he did today? Nobody’s looking for Conrad Potter because Conrad Potter’s dead. He’s got a new face, a new life. Maybe he’s using one of his previous IDs in New York.”
“Possible.”
“But he likes the complicated. Yeah, yeah. Still, worth looking there. This is good, Roarke. This is really damn good.”
“We do what we can.”
“Go do some more of it.” But she grabbed two fistfuls of his shirt first, yanked him to her, kissed him with enthusiasm. “I’ll pick it up here.”
The boy slept twice as long as Potter expected. Initially concerned—he didn’t want to spend time looking for an alternate—he checked the boy’s breathing, his pulse.
He’d wake soon enough, and the extra hours simply gave Potter more time to complete this stage of the mission.
He’d gone through the boy’s backpack and all the contents, including the tablet. With the bait’s name, he did some research on the family.
Father, Roland McReedy; mother, Kim Cho; younger brother, Silas. McReedy, human resources manager; Cho, paralegal.
Maybe if the mother had stayed home rather than taking a man’s job, her kid wouldn’t be drooling on the basement floor.
Two kids and she was probably giving her boss blow jobs under his desk instead of cleaning the house.
Made him sick.
He’d set up the camera, so he watched the boy on the monitor while he ate—salmon en cro?te, roasted fingerling potatoes, and green beans with shallots. He enjoyed a single glass of Pouilly-Fuissé, perfectly chilled, and finished the meal with coffee.
And the boy began to stir.
Excellent timing, he thought, and left the dishes for the droid to deal with.
He didn’t bother with a disguise. Devin McReedy wouldn’t describe him. After all, dead boys tell no tales.
He unlocked the basement door, went down into the media room he rarely used but enjoyed having. He bypassed the door—also locked, and secured by his retinal scan—to his workshop, and unlocked the next door into the storage area.
He’d cleared that out some time ago, in preparation for the finale of his mission.
It stood empty now, but for the boy on the floor, the recorder, a bucket, a single chair, and the cameras he’d installed that covered the whole of the room.
No windows, no identifying features. Just walls painted bright white, and a floor of fake wood planks.
Potter walked over, sat in the chair as the boy moaned, shifted.
As he moaned again, and said: “Mom. Mom.”
“Mom’s not here. And if you want to see her again, you’ll do exactly what I tell you.”