Page 40 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

“Carmichael, Santiago, push on March. Flights and rooms. Ordered the fabric then. Had to go back to pick it all up. How long, Peabody? Best guess.”

“Jesus, The Blue Boy would take longer. But if he did spread out the orders… Three or four weeks. Maybe up to six.”

“If it’s three, he might just stay over there. He could pay for a rush job.”

“It’s probably more like four, but—” Peabody grabbed her ’link. “It’s the paintbrush guy. Shit.” She plopped at her desk, engaged the translator. “This is Detective Peabody. Thank you so much for getting back to me, Mr. Cabot.”

He had a mane of snow-white hair that flowed to his shoulders and a luxurious mustache to match.

His blue eyes twinkled.

“My wife says this I must do. And since I want to make love to my wife on our anniversary, this I do. He pays in cash, both deposit and the final bill. He gives the deposit on the fourth of March of this year, yes?”

“Sir, do you have a name?”

“I think now this is not his true name. A joke, yes? He signs the receipt for the order—on this I insist—as J. H. Artiste. Artiste, you see. I think this is a joke, yes?”

“Possibly. When did he pick up the brushes?”

“Ah, I have this. The twenty-eighth of March. I charge more for so quick, but he agreed.”

“Thank you very much.”

“You’re welcome. Now I will go home and make love with my bride.”

“Happy anniversary.”

“Hotels,” Eve snapped. “In Paris, March four through March twenty-eight. Try the fake name. Private shuttles, New York to Paris, same. Peabody, have McNab run the Tribeca residences with the initials J.H. Jenkinson—”

“ J.H. , boss. Got it.”

“Baxter, what goes with fancy cheese?”

“Fancy wine. Wine shops, Tribeca. On that.”

“I’ll take my vehicle list back, run them in my office.”

Time, she thought. They still had it.

“Computer,” she said the minute she sat at her desk, “run search with current vehicle date for registrations containing the initials J and H .”

Acknowledged. Working…

“Work fast,” she muttered.

He hadn’t hit in Tribeca—not for victims or body dumps. Too close to home. He lived there, shopped there, likely haunted the galleries there.

Search complete. Result Justin Merrill Henry, age twenty-nine, 74 Grove Street, registered vehicle make Javlin, all-terrain Summit, 2059 model number 45193. No further matches.

“Display map, highlight Grove Street.”

When it flashed up, she shook her head.

“Not Tribeca. Close, but not. Computer, display 74 Grove Street.”

“No, damn it. Multiple residential, no garage. Still. Run data on Justin Merrill Henry of that address.”

Acknowledged. Working…

“It’s not him. Just not him, but gotta cover it anyway.” She pushed up, paced.

Run complete. Justin Merrill Henry, Caucasian male, age twenty-nine. Occupation, actor. Currently starring in Up to You , a situational comedy set in—

“Forget it. Cancel run.”

Acknowledged. Run canceled.

“Okay, all right, he could’ve made up initials, or they could mean something other than his name. Or the vehicles aren’t registered to him. Not personally. Money, family money. Family business.”

She sat again, tried vehicles registered to businesses with the initials.

Nothing.

“Long shot. Computer, try vehicles registered to businesses with a name beginning in J or H .”

Acknowledged. Working…

“Spinning, just spinning.” She shoved at her hair. “But something’s going to pop out. Too much here, and something going to click.”

Task complete. Two results. Hyperion Car Service, twelve registered vehicles, two registered vehicles that meet search requirements. Make Rosari, 2058 model Luxe all-terrain.

“Is Hyperion an arm of another company or organization?”

Negative.

“Financial data on Hyperion. When established, current worth, owners.”

She felt time bleeding away as the computer worked. Then scanned the result.

“No, you can’t cruise around Europe on that. Next result.”

The Harper Group. Private company, global with multiple subsidiaries, including Homestyle Food, Nature’s Gift, Mrs. Harper’s—

“Hold. That’s it, that’s fucking it. Private—odds are family or part family owned. Global. Mega mucho moolah. When established, current worth, owners. Send results to my PPC.”

She strode into the bullpen. “The Harper Group, cross-reference with the Harper Group.”

As she spoke, Roarke walked in. As Roarke walked in, Trueheart shot up a hand. The other held the ’link he still spoke into.

“You’ve got something,” she said to Roarke.

“As you do, it seems. The Harper Group. He used a company card for the costumes. While his signature was largely illegible, the initials—”

“ J and H .”

“ J and H ,” Roarke confirmed, “were legible.”

“He placed the orders in March.”

“Aren’t you clever?”

“Lieutenant, sir. J.H. Harper Group card. They think the last name starts with an E or an S ,” Trueheart added.

“Hit with Wine Flight.” Baxter flipped off his ’link. “Tribeca. He’s a regular. Harper Group company card.”

“Peabody.”

“McNab’s on his way down. Feeney’s with him. He hit on an address in Tribeca, single family residence, with garage. Harper Group owns it.”

She turned to see Yancy come in, Carter beside him. “I think we’ve got him, Dallas.”

“The more he worked, the more I remembered. I started to see him,” Carter said. “I think this is him, I really do.”

“Harper Group,” Carmichael called out. She added a fist pump.

“Company shuttle, New York to Paris, March three. Dallas, I’ve got it flying to Amsterdam.

Tracking… Come on, come on. Yeah. Two days later, Amsterdam to London.

And, oh yeah, here we go, three days later, London to Paris.

A week there—no, eight days. Eight. Then Paris to Florence, back to Paris a couple days later. ”

Carmichael looked up. “Boom!” Another fist pump. “Dallas, I’ve got the shuttle hitting all those cities again before returning to New York on April one.”

“April Fools,” Santiago said. “I can’t get through the privacy blocks on the hotels, LT, but I took a quick side trip. The Harper Group owns a home in Paris, a villa outside Florence. Nothing in Amsterdam, but they’ve got a place in London.”

The crack hadn’t just widened, Eve thought. It exploded.

“Yancy, grab a desk, run face rec.”

“Take mine.” Jenkinson got up. “Want a conference room, boss?”

“Peabody booked it.”

“One.”

“Want me to go set things up?”

“Do that. Peabody, with Jenkinson. Baxter, get me everything on the Harper Group. Find me J.H.—going to be a family member, younger son, New York resident.”

“Actually,” Roarke began.

“Never mind. Looks like our civilian’s got that.”

McNab pranced in a step ahead of Feeney. “Address in Tribeca, fits solid. Harper Group owned. The cap closed it up.”

Feeney shrugged. “Wife’s got a girl thing going tonight. Figured I’d hang and help the boy out.”

“I want a name. I want a face. Roarke.”

“Jonathan Harper—”

“Ebersole! Bam!” It was Yancy’s turn to punch a fist in the air. “Nice work, Carter.”

Looking a little dazed, Carter scanned the bullpen. “Does it always work like this?”

“Tonight it does,” Eve told him. “Thank you very much for your help.”

“Sure.” He shook Eve’s hand. “Can you let us know when you’ve arrested him? Man, I almost wish I could go with you and see it.”

“Yes to the first, no to the second. Do you need transportation?”

“I’ll get you a car, Carter.”

He turned to Roarke. “Thanks. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Eve counted on it being a hell of a night.