Page 43 of Framed in Death (In Death #61)

As they started down the glides, Roarke touched her arm.

“What worries you?”

“Plenty. That he has an escape route we can’t see or anticipate.

I don’t see how, but I’m not going to eliminate it as impossible.

If he gets out and runs, he’s got access to the kind of money that can zip him off where we can’t get him back.

I worry that he’ll find a way to use or harm the civilian, and if so, that’s on me.

I decided to wait, seal it up by catching him with his next target. ”

She hissed out a breath. “I know we’ve got him, got him cold on the evidence, but catching him with his next target puts a lid on it.

It goes back to the goddamn money again.

I know they’ll bring in a team of lawyers who’ll push hard, and with skill.

They’ll delay, pick apart every piece of evidence. ”

“You have a great deal of that evidence.”

“Yeah, but. I need a confession, and it won’t be straightforward. He doesn’t take blame. I have to hit him over the art, and he’ll have that team of lawyers shutting me down as much as possible.

“He could make bail. He shouldn’t, but even with the lid on it, he could make bail unless they convince a judge he’s a runner. And he fucking is. If they set bail, his family will pay it, whatever it is.”

“And he’ll run.”

“He’ll not only run, they’ll help him.”

It gnawed at her, and grated against every molecule of her sense of justice.

“They’ll help him get out of the country and live his life in luxury somewhere he won’t have to worry about extradition. And when they do, he’ll kill again. He’ll kill again,” she repeated, “because he sure as hell has a taste for it now.”

She shrugged it off her shoulders. “I have to put all that away. First, we take him down. Then I’ll worry about the rest.”

Step-by-step, she told herself.

“You go in the front with me and Peabody. We head straight for the studio. You get that safe room shut down.”

“Don’t worry there.”

She briefed him on the rest as they worked their way to the garage and the vans.

She’d intended to make the arrest with a team of six. Now she had nearly double that and thought, considering the size of the building, the security features—including a panic room—she could use them all.

Better this way, she thought as she climbed in the van. And better, too, the show of force. Shake him up some, she decided. Let him see he had nowhere to run.

And after?

Step-by-step, she thought again.

“Out of cam range, Feeney.”

“I got the memo, kid.”

When Feeney pulled the van over, Eve shifted aside so he could climb into the back and work with Roarke.

She set the timer on her wrist unit to twenty minutes.

“Just across the street,” McNab said in her ear. “I’m about to start coordinating with the cap and Roarke.”

“Copy that.”

She studied the building on-screen. Security lights on, lights glowing behind the windows, first and third floors.

Was he up there? Had he started his work?

“Another layer on the shield.”

“That’s the upgrade,” Roarke said to Feeney. “I factored it. It’s a bit of a worm crawl, then cloning the code. Miss that, the internals read intrusion, so that crawl under first. Nearly there.”

Four minutes gone, she thought. Sixteen to go.

“There we are. Now…”

“Hold it open, nice and wide.”

“I got that, Cap. I see it. I can hold it,” McNab told him. “You slip through.”

“Eyes and ears on your mark, Roarke.”

“Hold it steady, Ian. That’s the way. And mark.”

“Motion detected, first floor. No heat source,” Feeney added. “Droid, kitchen area. Ears aren’t picking up any sound. No other movement—wait, rooftop. No heat source.”

“He has two droids—minimum.” Eve shifted closer. “I don’t see any heat source.”

“No heat sources throughout.”

“He’s not inside. Hold everything. Don’t shut down the cams, the locks, nothing yet.” She paused her countdown.

“We wait.”

It was his lucky night.

So Aaron Pine thought as he walked down the block. Some rich dude wanted to paint him? Hell, for two thousand—half of which already resided in the zip pocket of his skin pants—the weird guy could paint his ass, his works, his whole damn body.

Pick your colors.

He’d hit a rough patch, and the thousand in his pocket was more than he’d made all week. And another at the end of the night? He’d be cruising.

What he really wanted to do was act, but after three years of rejection, he’d realized he’d end up sleeping on the street if he didn’t change his aim.

So he walked the streets instead.

And, to his mind, it was just another kind of theater.

Like right now, pretending interest in the rich dude’s painting when he couldn’t give the tiniest shit.

“Did you always want to be an artist?”

“It’s what I was born for.”

“I really admire artistic people. I wanted to be an actor, but I just couldn’t get launched.”

Aaron paused, and felt his spirits reach even higher when—Jonathan, he remembered—clicked the code on a sleek, black two-seater.

“Wow, this is some mag ride! Your art must really bring it in.”

Jonathan’s voice turned as cold as his eyes. “Art isn’t about money.”

“Yeah, I used to think that about acting.” Absolutely delighted, Aaron slipped into the passenger seat. “But a man’s got to eat. So tell me, Jonathan, what are you looking for from me? What mood? What emotion? I’ve never modeled before, but I think I could be good at it.”

Jonathan flicked him a glance. “You’re at your ease, at home. A sensual, elegant man. A man of confidence, an educated man. A nineteenth-century man.”

“Nineteenth century? Historical.”

Like snagging a plum part without the audition.

“Frosty.”

“I want full-length. I have your costume. And we’ll need to fill in your facial hair a bit more.”

A thousand in the pocket, a thousand to come.

“Whatever you want.” Aaron shifted, grinned. “So what am I wearing?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

When Jonathan made the turn to the garage, Aaron’s mouth dropped open.

“Wow! Your place? XL ult, man! I’m going to have to try my hand at painting.”

“There he is. We wait,” Eve said again. “Give him time to get to the studio. I don’t want to rush it. He could check cameras before he gets started.”

“Two heat sources in the garage,” Feeney announced. “He’s got a target with him. They’re on the move.”

Eve watched as they walked through the house. They didn’t take the elevator, but continued through—a pause, one source circling.

“Target’s taking it all in,” she murmured. “Suspect’s showing off. ‘Yeah, this is all mine.’ Up the stairs, second floor. We hold, we wait. Let him get set up. Third floor.”

“More lights on up there now,” McNab said in her ear.

“Yeah, I see it. One’s wandering around—that’s the target. Ebersole’s crossing the room. What’s he doing?”

“Opening a bottle of wine,” Roarke said after a moment. “Pouring it.”

“He doesn’t dose him yet. Just keeping it friendly. Relax, have some wine.”

“Both sources moving toward the bathroom/dressing area,” Feeney observed.

“Checking out the costume, that’s what they’re doing. Target’s sitting down.” Baffled, she watched the screen. “Suspect’s fooling with target’s face. What the hell’s he doing?”

“Facial hair?” Peabody leaned closer. “Maybe adding facial hair, a beard? You said target would be a male, and he’s taller than the target. He might need facial hair for the portrait.”

“Yeah, yeah, that works. It has to be as close, as detailed as possible.” Impatience gnawed at the base of her neck, and Eve mentally swatted it away.

“Taking his time,” Roarke observed. “Getting it right.”

“Yeah, he steps back, studies, moves in. Adding a wig? Yeah, see how his hands move? A wig, facial hair. There. That’s got it. Target’s getting up, patting at his face, now his head. Reaching up now. And suspect’s moving back into the main room.”

“Target’s stripping down. Changing into the costume.” Feeney nodded. “Yeah, that tracks. Suspect’s…”

“Mixing paints. He’s mixing paints,” Peabody repeated.

“As soon as the target comes out, start taking security down. Wait for him to come out, wait until the suspect’s focused on him.

“He thinks he’s safe,” Eve murmured. “Invulnerable in his glass palace. The rich prince who can do whatever he wants, to anyone he wants.”

“Looks like the target’s checking himself out in a mirror. He’s coming out,” McNab added. “Coming out now.”

“Start the clock,” Eve ordered. “Take it down.”

They drank more wine—Eve could see it from the gestures. Chatting? Explaining what he wanted to the person he intended to kill in a matter of hours?

Setting the glasses down.

“Looks like the suspect’s posing the target.” Feeney glanced at Eve. “Target’s standing up.”

“Left hand on left hip? I can’t tell on the right. Just looks like it’s bent at the elbow. Not quite perfect, not quite. A little more this way, a little more that.”

“External alarms deactivated,” Roarke said.

“Mixing paints again. Peabody?”

“Yeah, that’s how it looks to me. Now he’s… I think he’s started painting.”

“Facing the target, turned to him—which puts his back to the studio door.”

“Cameras down.”

“All teams into positions. EDD members join after full shutdown. Into positions, and wait for the go. Peabody.”

“I’m with you.”

They climbed out, moved down the block.

A handful of people strolled along the sidewalks, taking in the clear September night. A few couples, hand in hand, a group of women laughing as they strolled by.

“If he looks out the window,” Peabody commented, “looks down, he’d spot us.”

“He won’t. He’s focused on the art now. But we’ll edge closer to the building. Then we’re just standing, out of the way of pedestrian traffic, having a conversation.”

“Team two in position.”

“Hold there.”

“Team three moving into position.”

“And hold there.”

“You know, they gutted another building for that garage.”

Peabody gave it a good study as they approached where Santiago and Carmichael waited for the go.