Page 9

“When did you get to London? You’re not from there,” she said when he frowned. “Not from England, not from Ireland. Eastern Europe. I can hear it.”

“Yes. There was war. It took my father, my brother. It took my mother’s heart, and then her life. I lived, and wanted a different life, so I took the name Kolchek. There are reasons that aren’t important to you, for this.

“With those papers, with that name and three years added to my age, I traveled for a time. I was young, clever, angry. In time, the anger faded.”

Very precisely, he cut into the omelet on his plate. Eve already knew Roarke had loaded it with cheese and spinach.

“I studied medicine—traditional and holistic. And I made my way to London. I thought to… insert myself in King’s College, obtain a medical degree.”

“Insert yourself?”

He moved a shoulder, elegantly—and it occurred to her that Roarke often made the exact same gesture. “I had certain skills. Why not use them to gain entry to such a prestigious institution? I began there, learned there, started a life there.

“And then war came. Slowly at first. Insidious if you will. Rumbles and dissent, anger, distrust, and more anger. Some had too much, some too little. Some demanded all believe what they believed. Some were from somewhere else, and had no business living, working, breathing, so were demeaned, defiled, attacked.

“It grew and it spread, and the violence erupted until cities were war zones.”

“You served as a medic.”

“Yes. Ivanna had come to London with her husband and their little boys. And they were caught in the violence. He was killed, and she was recruited by the Underground. And in turn, she recruited me. And I brought Alice into it. Not at first—at first Alice took in Ivanna’s children. They were mixed race, and so young. Alice hid them until Ivanna could get them away, to safety.”

“But she stayed in London? Ivanna?”

“The war had spread, from Europe to the Americas, beyond. Where and when would they be safe if we didn’t stop this hate, this violence?”

“I’m not criticizing her.”

He took a breath, then nodded. “No, who’d understand better what it takes to hold back the blood? After the children were away, Alice—she was also clever—she understood what we did, and wanted to take part. We married, and she took part. Then Marjorie, then Cyril, and so on. And we were twelve. We were The Twelve. And in those early years of the twenties, you would say elite covert operatives, given a great deal of autonomy.”

“I’m recording now,” she said, and he nodded.

“And Potter, Conrad Potter? When did he join your team?”

“In late 2021. He made the twelfth. He had worked in intelligence before, had been in the military, was a police officer. Skilled, experienced. And to my everlasting regret, trusted.”

“What happened the night you destroyed the enemy headquarters?”

“We were two teams, as the mission had two parts. Magpie had discovered this HQ when scavenging, and scouting. Mole had learned about a prison where many were being held—some would be transported, others executed.”

He paused, ate some omelet. “Most executed, no doubt, as Flame—a small radical group who wanted to burn it all down—had joined with the larger Dominion. They joined, we believed, as the tide was turning. They were losing, and their counterparts in North America had already lost.

“The prison was in Whitechapel. Alice and Hawk would set the explosives in the tunnels of the HQ, get clear, then set them off. Magpie and Shark—Potter—would serve as lookouts and backup. Both Rabbit and Cobra would remain at our HQ for communications. The rest of us would hit the prison. We would wait for the signal, the explosion, and go in.”

“What went wrong?”

“Shark left his post. We learned during the trial that he had stockpiled weapons, money, papers. He went in, after Alice and Hawk. He intended to kill them both, take the remote, he’d get clear, set off the charges, vanish. Helped in that escape by alerting the enemy of our plans to take the prison.”

He paused, cleared his throat, sipped some water.

“He missed a killing shot with Hawk, and as Hawk tried to fight him off, Alice opened her comms so we heard what was happening. But Hawk, already wounded, already dying, couldn’t fight him off. Nor could Alice for long. It was all so quick, as we were rushing back. She made the decision—and he must’ve seen it in her eyes because he ran.”

“She set off the charges.”

“Yes. We had a child. We planned to wait until after the war, but we had a child. I know she thought of our child, and she ran after him, but couldn’t get clear. And she pushed the remote.

“He’d gotten clear enough, Potter. Injured, but clear enough. Magpie ran to the tunnels. He called out to us, told us which direction Potter had taken, and that he was bleeding. But he’d heard Alice running, and hoped… He found her, and pulled her out, but…”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat. “It turned the tide, turned back the tide of blood, that night in May 2026. Alice turned the tide. Within a few months, it was over but for a few stubborn pockets, and many of those pockets contained cops and politicians. But people began to rebuild, and to walk on the streets without fear again, children played in parks again.”

“And the nine left took an oath.”

“We’d been betrayed, not for ideology, you understand? Not for convictions, however wrong. But for money, for the desire to live a life of ease built on corpses. So we swore an oath of loyalty on the sacrifice of those who’d fallen. No matter when, no matter where, if one needed help, the rest would come and give it.”

“You went to Dublin.”

He arched his eyebrows, looked at the recorder. Eve shut it off.

“I went to Dublin with my daughter, as Kolchek. Alice’s grandmother had come from Dublin, and it was Alice’s wish to take Marlena to Ireland when there was no war. There was no place for me in London any longer. We lived quietly, a decent enough flat I could afford. After so long, quiet was enough.

“Then, years later, I found a young boy, half beaten to death in an alley. And things changed again. Having this boy—a very angry boy—disturbed the quiet I’d lived in and with for too long. He didn’t know it, but I needed the boy as much as he needed me.

“When I killed the man who beat the boy near to death, I did it to save him and my daughter. But it also reminded me I’d had a purpose. I found it again. I found myself again.”

“What’s on the recorder I have to share with my partner, my commander, with Mira, with whoever assists in this investigation. What’s not on it stays here.”

“I’m grateful. You can toss gratitude aside,” he said before she could speak. “But I’ll still give it.”

“You have a file on Conrad Potter.”

His eyes flickered, then he moved his shoulder again. “Yes.”

“I need a copy. It’s going to be more detailed and informative than official channels. Did he have a family?”

“No. An only child, and his parents dead by the time he joined the team.”

“Lovers?”

“Of course. But none that, after his disgrace, his conviction, communicated with him.”

“Possibility of a child?”

“None that I know of. He had no fondness for children.”

“Friends outside The Twelve? Potential partners, those he conspired with?”

“He gave no names. He had no loyalty, so I believe he would have. It was for money, Lieutenant. The war was slowing, you could see the ending. Another year—and so much less with what was done that night in May. He saw his chance to take what he’d stolen, scavenged, hidden away, and become someone else. Someone wealthy, perhaps important. Most if not all of us would be dead. I’ve no doubt he had a knife in the back planned for Magpie, and an assassination for Rabbit and Cobra.”

“There would only be one, like on the card.”

“It would be the most logical, wouldn’t it?”

“How much money, what kind of weapons?”

“He never said, he never broke there. We found some things in his flat that made it clear he’d been amassing funds and weapons, and for a number of years, but not where.”

“He would be, what, seventy-eight?”

“I believe. He was about the same age as Kolchek.”

“You’re actually three years younger.” Roarke finally spoke. “And never said.”

“Four, precisely. Summerset added a year more. They’re only numbers. You’re a year younger than we thought, and I’m four younger than it says on my ID. But we are who we are.”

As it didn’t apply, Eve let that go by as she thought it all through.

“I could’ve fixed that when you took Summerset. I had enough skill for that even then.”

“Not worth the bother.”

“When he died,” Eve put in, “when Potter died, did you go there? To the prison?”

“For what purpose?”

“To see the body. To see the body of the man responsible for your wife’s death.”

“I had no desire to see him again, dead or alive, and had other duties.”

“Okay, I’m going to need to talk to the others, tonight.”

“Understood.”

“And you’ll stay in the house. You don’t leave the house.”

She all but heard his spine crack.

“That’s absurd. I have any number of errands to—”

“You’ll give me a list of them,” Roarke told him. “I’ll see they’re dealt with.”

Summerset’s frown could have called the thunder. “As if you have time for such things. Or the wit to know how to pick out a ripe melon.”

“I pay plenty of people who have time for such things, and know how to pick a bloody melon. I’m buggered if you’ll end up like Rossi, so you’ll stay here.”

“I’m as capable of handling myself as either of you, and have been at that a great deal longer.”

“Regardless.” Roarke’s tone, cool and final, drew a deep, hard line. “You’ll give me a list, and the errands will be seen to. The boy still needs you. If you love him, you’ll do as he asks.”

“That’s… conniving of you.”

“It is. And smart.” Eve gave Roarke an approving nod. “He’s good at pulling out stuff like that, and it works because he means it. Anyway, if you don’t do what the boy asks, the cop will put you in protective custody. You won’t like it.”

She pushed back, rose. “So go make your list. I’m heading into Central.”

Roarke rose, put his hands on her shoulders.

“An early start to a hell of a day. Take care of my cop. I need her, too.”

“Don’t worry. I’m armed and dangerous.”

“That you are.” He kissed her.

“I’m leaving early and plan to be back early. I want those interviews. Consider yourself under house arrest,” she said to Summerset, and left.

“She had to poke that in, I suppose.”

Roarke just smiled, sat again. “Have some more coffee,” he suggested. He poured. “You’ll want fresh flowers for the guest rooms.”

Summerset only sighed. “Yes.”

“And a ripe melon.”

Summerset laughed. “Actually, yes. Two. And more. It will be a long list.”

Eve texted Peabody on the way downtown. It was still shy of seven, but if her partner wasn’t up and moving, she’d just have to get up and moving.

Heading downtown now. I have a lot of new data. Report in asap. Need to brief you and write up this report before my consult with Mira.

She didn’t add if Whitney wanted an oral report before she finished her consult with Mira, Peabody needed to give it.

No point giving her partner the jitters this early in the morning.

And while she consulted with Mira, Peabody could start deeper runs on the remainder of The Twelve.

Possibly one of them had been in league with Potter. If not, possibly one of their contacts, sources, lovers, ex-lovers, family members.

And she wanted to contact the prison, satisfy herself there.

He’d been a cop, a treacherous, dirty cop. Maybe he’d come into the team already dirty. Maybe some of his cop friends had been dirty—and part of this.

Sometimes it was just for money, but she wondered.

Why plan to kill the entire team? Easier ways, again, easier ways. Less risky, less destructive.

New York was awake.

She imagined the trio of street LCs she’d spotted on her way to the crime scene the morning before sat in the all-night deli. Night shift workers probably had their blackout shades down, and the day shift was reporting to work, or headed that way.

Some of them rode on the maxibus that farted to a halt at a stop to pick up more.

She caught the sweet and yeasty scent from a bakery that probably had fans blowing that temptation out to the sidewalk.

Because who could resist?

She wondered how you knew a melon was ripe, then shoved that away.

Summerset would stay home, safe behind the gates. He might’ve gone against her orders, but he’d do as Roarke asked.

Because there was love.

So one worry off her list. She’d check off more when she knew the others were safe in the house behind the gates.

Because one of them was slated to be next. She had no doubt of that. And he wouldn’t wait long.

He might have wanted them all in New York, and she’d helped accommodate him there. But behind the gates, the walls, the security.

And if one of them turned out to be part of this, she’d root that out.

She pulled into the garage at Central and headed straight up.

Bring Feeney in—yes, she wanted to do that. But to get things in place first. Her board, she needed that visual. Her book, that documentation. And she needed to write it all out in detail.

Kolchek? She could let that slide. If for some weird reason that crossed into this? She’d find a way. But she couldn’t see it.

She went into her office, to the coffee. And with it, began to update her board.

When she sat to do the same with her book, she heard Peabody coming.

“I got here as soon… whoa, that’s a lot more. Who are— Hey, that’s—ah—Marjorie Wright. Two-time Oscar winner. Not a suspect?”

“No, one of your spies. Urban Wars era.”

“Holy shit, really? She looks so elegant, and… Why is Summerset on there? Is that an ID of him from back when, too? Because he was like dashing. And— Holy shit!”

Peabody’s eyes popped wide, and her jaw dropped.

“Summerset’s a spy? He was one of the group?”

“You should pack away the ‘holy shits’ for now because you’ll run out of them. These are The Twelve, or were. I’ve added the code names they used.”

“Summerset was Fox. I can see that. You just don’t think someone you know could be a spy. Which is part of the deal, sure, but… Wow.”

“Alice Dormer, Fawn, was his wife.”

“His—oh God, oh jeez. That’s just really awful. She was so young. I guess I never thought about her being so young. So pretty.”

“This is the man responsible. Conrad Potter—Shark. Responsible for her death, the death of Leroy Dubois—Hawk. He was tried for war crimes, and spent over three decades in a prison in the UK. He died five years ago. But there’s no way he’s not responsible for Rossi.

“Get coffee, take my chair. I have a lot to tell you.”

“Did he have family? Potter. An accomplice. Maybe somebody he worked with who went inside for a while, but was released?”

“All good questions. I’m going to start at the beginning. Summerset recognized Rossi.”

She worked through it. Even for Peabody she left out Kolchek, and details on Summerset’s background that didn’t directly apply to the investigation.

Roarke would have called it a matter of respect. She preferred thinking of it as keeping a deal.

“She was a teacher. Sorry,” Peabody said. “I can’t imagine what it was like for her. For him, for any of them. Being part of something like that, and having someone you trusted, a partner really, turn on you. And he was a cop. It shouldn’t make it worse, but it does.”

“It does,” Eve agreed.

“I’m surprised he lived long enough to stand trial.”

“He ran, he hid, but not fast or far enough. Rossi got to him first. And broke these two fingers fighting him.”

Eve held up the index and middle finger.

“Where the killer put the card, and the message. It all ties in. But Potter’s dead.”

“I’m going to contact the prison, get more details on that. Summerset knows the date. November 3, 2056. He contacted the survivors. They’re coming to New York today. They’ll all be in, at the house by this afternoon.”

“ Your house?”

“It’s secure, as secure as it gets. I need to report to Whitney. I need to write this up, send the report to him, to Mira. Then meet with him, consult with Mira.”

“What do you want me to cover?”

“Take them one at a time, do deep background. You’re going to run into blocks during the Urbans, and some bullshit that’ll be cover.”

“Summerset, too?”

“No, I’ve got him. I’d say it’s unlikely—but unlikely’s not good enough—any of them were working with Potter. Knowing more about them, even small details, will help us with the interviews.”

“Us?”

“Until we’ve got more solid, they’re suspects. Low probability, but we interview them with that in mind. Potter never flipped on anyone, so very low on the probability. We’ll make it zero.”

“I get to interview spies!” With obvious delight, Peabody pressed her hands to the side of her head. “I love my job! I freaking love it!”

“Then go do it. Wait. What time is it in England?”

“Ah…”

“Never mind, I’ll look it up.”

“No, I’ve got it. It’s right there with Scotland, and we have to time it when we touch base with McNab’s family. It’s, ah…” She checked her wrist unit. “Maybe twelve-thirty-ish. I could be off an hour either way.”

“At night?”

“No, the other way. They’re ahead of us. It’s afternoon there.”

“Stupid, but currently convenient. Start the background checks. Feed them to me as you get them.”

Alone, Eve sat and looked up the prison. It came clear why they called it Five Hells, as it had five buildings. Old stone buildings with guard towers, high walls. Electronic gates and steel doors that looked anachronistic against a place that struck her like it might have held dungeons, torture chambers.

A quick scan of its history told her no dungeons, but they’d had a permanent gallows until the mid-twentieth century.

“Harsh.”

She found the name of the warden, and started her struggle through red tape. After a few redirects, two full scans of her identification, verification of same, she shoved her way through to Nial Meedy.

He looked to her eye as stiff and anal as Summerset, in a black suit, a tightly knotted tie. He had patchy gray hair around a thin, pinched face. Pale blue eyes looked back at her, clearly showing both annoyance and impatience.

“Lieutenant, how can we help the New York Police and Security Department?”

“I need information on an inmate. Conrad Potter, life sentence for various war crimes during the Urban Wars.”

“Our facility houses six hundred and forty-eight inmates, and a number from that era of conflict.”

“At this time, I’m only interested in one. He reportedly died in your facility on November 3, 2056.”

“If you’re implying negligence or malfeasance—”

“I’m not,” she interrupted. “I simply need the details, as they may have some application to a murder investigation in New York.”

“I hardly see any application.”

Yeah, as stiff and anal as Summerset.

“Conrad Potter was responsible for the deaths of two Underground agents, part of a team he worked with during the Urbans era. He was tried and convicted and imprisoned for those crimes and others. Another member of that team was murdered in New York the night before last. I’m primary. The killer left a message which referred back to that era, with the code names of the other agents.”

“I hardly see—”

“I would like information on the man responsible for the deaths of those two agents, as it may apply to the death I’m investigating.

“Got a computer, Mr. Meedy?”

“Certainly.”

“Maybe you could take a minute and look him up. I could, if necessary, go through Homeland, Interpol, MI5 or 6, whichever, but that’s a lot of time and trouble for both of us.”

“One moment, please.”

He snapped it out, then put her in a holding pattern.

Hissing between her teeth, she got up, got more coffee. Sat again. Drank some.

Meedy came back on.

“Your information is correct. Conrad Potter, housed in this facility since August of 2026, died on November third of 2056 from gliomatosis cerebri, previously undetected.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“A brain tumor, Lieutenant. It’s noted in his file he refused any and all cancer vaccines, which is his right. He was found unresponsive in his quarters, taken to our surgery, where he was pronounced. His body was scanned, the tumor—one of extensive growth—discovered.”

“He was pronounced, on-site. Witnessed?”

“As with any death, I viewed the body, signed off, and as the deceased had no family, ordered the cremation.”

“I’d like to speak with the prison surgeon regarding the death.”

“He was attended by Dr. Martin J. Pierce. Dr. Pierce is no longer on staff.”

“Why?”

Meedy let out an audible sigh. “He resigned and relocated.”

“Where?”

“You appear to be grasping at straws, Lieutenant. I don’t have that information, nor any need for it.”

“Okay, how about when? When did he resign and relocate?”

Meedy didn’t grind his teeth, but Eve could tell he wanted to.

“One moment.”

She played it out in her mind as she went into another holding pattern.

“Dr. Pierce left our staff on November twenty-first of 2056.”

She thought: Son of a bitch. “The ashes. Where are Potter’s ashes?”

“For pity’s sake! Buried, of course. We’re not heathens. Unclaimed remains are buried.”

“I need them dug up, transported to the lab in New York.”

“Lieutenant, I’ve been patient with your odd line of inquiry, but—”

“No, you haven’t, not especially. But I don’t care about that. I care about making damn sure Conrad Potter is dead. We can get DNA.”

“I have neither the authority nor the inclination to exhume remains for such a tenuous reason. I suggest—”

“I do. I’ve got the inclination, and I’ll get the authority. You’ll hear back from me.”

She clicked off, sat for ten seconds as it fell into place for her. Then contacted her connection at Interpol.

Inspector Abernathy looked both surprised and a little pleased. She recalled he’d been a stiff one, too. But he’d loosened up considerably by the time they had Cobbe in custody.

“Lieutenant Dallas, what an unexpected surprise. How—”

“Listen, no time for small talk. I’m going to run the highlights. You have to trust me.”

“I do?”

“Yeah, you do. I need cremated ashes exhumed and sent to my custody, from the burial site at the prison in Manchester. The one they call Five Hells. Nial Meedy’s warden. He’s not cooperating.”

“This isn’t in my purview.”

“You can make it your purview.”

“And I’d do that because?”

“The ashes are purported to be of a Conrad Potter—life sentence for war crimes, Urbans era. I’ve got a body in the morgue that tells me those ashes aren’t Potter’s. I believe I have your war criminal in my city.”

“There are checks and balances.”

“Yeah, and one of the checks and balances—the doctor who pronounced him—resigned and took off a couple of weeks after he pronounced Potter dead from a brain tumor. One they didn’t know he had until he died? I’m not buying it.

“I need the ashes to verify. I’m asking you to find a way to get them to me. It’s sure as hell not something I’d ask for unless I needed it. He has a kill list.”

She glanced at the board, tried a specific card. “Marjorie Wright’s on it.”

“Dame Wright? The actress?”

“That’s right. She did covert work for the Underground in the Urbans. I imagine you can verify that if you need to.”

He said nothing, just studied her for a full ten seconds.

“Let me see what I can do.”

“Appreciated. Later.”

She got up, paced. It fit. It damn well fit. Not yet explaining who and how the driver connected, but it fit.

She sat again. She needed to write the report, and carefully. She needed to give both Mira and Whitney time to read it and digest it.

And she didn’t have a hell of a lot of time herself.

When she’d written it, gave it no more than a cursory check, she sent it off.

She needed thinking time, and couldn’t take it.

Instead, she started a search on the prison doctor.

She found a number of individuals by that name, living and dead, adult and child. And a few of those who registered as doctors.

But she found no record of a Martin J. Pierce, doctor, who’d worked at the prison. None who lived or had lived in Manchester, England.

“Because you don’t exist anymore. How much did he give you, Pierce? How much to help him fake his death? Enough to wipe out your past, create a new identification, and I just bet, live a damn swanky life as somebody else.”

She contacted Feeney. He said, “Yo.”

“I need a top-grade search on Martin J. Pierce, a doctor, a prison doctor in Manchester, England. He’s wiped off the system, and he’d have done that around November ’56 or early ’57.

“If you can’t find anything, I’ll push it on Roarke.”

“You trying to hurt my feelings?”

“I need to find the bastard, Feeney.”

“That’s coming loud and clear. We’ll get on it.”

“Thanks. Listen, I’ve got a lot of data on the Rossi murder, the connection to the Urbans. I’ll fill you in as soon as I can.”

“This Pierce guy in that?”

“I don’t know if he goes back to the Urbans, but he’s in it now. Can you get somebody up there to do a deep analysis on the security feed from the terminal? On the driver—the face?”

“We haven’t hit on that.”

“You won’t. I want to know if it’s fake. A disguise. Prosthetics, masking. He’ll have had work done, changed his look, but it’s got to be more.”

“You got my interest.”

“Good. I’ll get back to you.”

She used the interoffice. “Peabody. Now!”

Her partner came on a run. “I don’t have much yet—”

“Later. Contact DeWinter. I need her to stand by.”

“She was going to look at the injuries on Rossi, but—”

“I want those, too. I want it all nailed down. But I’m going to send her cremated remains. I need DNA, and as fast as she can get it.”

“Whose remains?”

“That’s what I need to know. They’re supposed to be Potter’s. They’re not going to be because he’s alive and killing in New York.”

Once again, Peabody’s jaw dropped. “What? How?”

“Read the end of the report I just sent. I’ve got to get to Mira. Get DeWinter on deck.”

“But—”

She waved Peabody off, and rushed out of her office.

Mira would forgive her if she arrived late. But Mira’s admin would make her pay for it.