by J. D. Robb
“I don’t know anything of their relationship, but I do know that Ricker’s connected to me—to my father, to yours. I know he went to a lot of trouble to take me down, and failed. And to end you, and failed. Now his son may very well be connected to your victim.”
Eve sat back, tapped her fingers on her thighs. Thinking, thinking. “Max Ricker had a lot of cops in his pocket. A lot of officials, a lot of politicians. We dug some of them out last year, but it’s unlikely we dug them all. Would Ricker have passed them to his son?”
“I can’t say for sure—yet. But who else?”
“Yeah. And his businesses, too—what we didn’t find and shut down. Certainly, his contacts, his power points, and there’d be finances. Coltraine meets the son of a notorious criminal, now doing life—well, several terms of life—she’d have run him. She’d run the owner of the business that got hit. It’s routine. Make sure it doesn’t come up an insurance fraud, at the very least. When she did, she’d have made the connection to his father. She’d ask him about it. Have to.”
She pushed up, walked to her board to study Coltraine’s ID shot. “She’d have to ask. Three years ago Ricker was still at large, still slithering through the loopholes, but any standing background check on the son would have coughed out the data on the father.”
“I don’t know if it has any bearing on your case, but . . .”
“Yeah, but.” She looked back at Roarke. “Did she close it? The case?”
“In a manner of speaking. She narrowed it down to three suspects. In each case when she secured a search warrant and went to serve it, she found the suspects gone and several items from the antique shop on the premises. Within two days, the bodies of the three men were found floating in the Chattahoochee River—chained together.”
“The what river? Did you make that up?”
“I suppose I could have, but no. I suspect some Native Americans did that a few centuries ago.”
“I think it’d be embarrassing to be dead in the Hoochie-Coochie River.”
“Chattahoochee.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Quite a bit, I’d think, to Atlantans.” He moved to her, laid a hand on her cheek. “And now that you’ve finished lightening the mood until you can get a handle on this . . .”
After a while, Eve thought, marriage turned walls into clear glass so both of you could see right through each other. “Okay. Okay, so maybe it’s like father, like son? Ricker’s a killer. He didn’t think twice about snapping necks or slitting them. The son gets ripped off, hunts down the ripper-offers—or follows Coltraine’s dots to same—and does them. Or has them done. She’d have to look there.”
“According to the file, Alex Ricker was attending a charity event, in Miami, with a few hundred witnesses at the time of death of the three suspects.”
“Didn’t want to get his hands dirty, ordered the hit when he was covered.”
“Possibly. If so, he proved as elusive as his father did. Oh, and I accessed the ME reports on the dead thieves.” He watched her start to speak—to object, no doubt—then swallow it. “They’d been beaten over the course of several hours, incurred numerous broken bones before their throats were slit. That’s the Ricker touch, in my opinion.”
“She had to know it.” Eve studied Coltraine again, tried to see into her head. “Everyone says she was thorough, detail-oriented. She wouldn’t have missed the link.”
“The files note a follow-up interview with Alex after the bodies were recovered, and the verification of his alibi. While the homicide case went cold, all of Ricker’s property was recovered.”
Eve rubbed the back of her neck. “Three years ago. She didn’t put in for transfer here until just under a year ago. As much as I’d like to burn another Ricker for pretty much anything, I can’t see the connection between her murder and a trio of payback homicides three years ago.”
“Maybe there isn’t. But Alex Ricker is in New York, and has been for the last week.”
“Is that so?” Eve stuck her hands in her pockets, rocked on her heels. “Now, see, that’s just too much coincidence. Where is he?”
“He has a pied-à-terre on Park Avenue.”
“Convenient. I’ll have to pay him a visit in the morning.”
“I’ll be going with you.” He held up a hand before she could speak. “Anything that involves Ricker, his son, his second cousin, his bloody pet poodle, I’m in it, too.”
“They don’t allow dogs on the Omega Penal Colony. Okay. I’m not going to argue about Ricker—either of them. We did enough of that a year ago.”
“A year ago,” Roarke pointed out. “A kind of anniversary. And here we have another dead cop—and you were littered with them last spring—as well as another Ricker. Oh, aye, far too many coincidences here.”
She’d already followed that path. “We need to do a deep background on Alex Ricker. When did he buy the Park Avenue property, what other businesses does he have, and how many of them are in New York? How often does his name pop up in conjunction with an investigation? And what has he been doing for the past year? Has he contacted his father? A lot of questions.”
“You won’t find the answers to all of them on these units. Not with the privacy laws and CompuGuard. Believe me, he’ll be protected under several layers.”
“Then we’ll use your unregistered.”
He angled his head. “That’s a quick leap for you, Lieutenant.”
“Maybe.” She stood as she was, hands in pockets, and stared into Coltraine’s face. “And maybe she found out more about Alex Ricker three years ago than she noted in her files.”
“You think he, like his father, had cops in his pocket? Including her?”
“I don’t know.” Inside her belly knots twisted. “God, I hope not, for Morris’s sake. But if she was dirty, I need to find out. If she was clean, and if Alex Ricker had something to do with her death, I need to find out.”
In Roarke’s secured office, the privacy-screened windows opened to the lights of the city. The slick U-shaped console held the sharpest of cutting-edge equipment—shielded as well—from the vigilent eye of CompuGuard.
Illegal, Eve thought, so whatever they found here couldn’t leave the room. But she’d know. For Morris, she needed to know.
Roarke, his hair pulled back in a short tail, his sleeves rolled up, stepped behind the console. He laid his hand on the palm plate. “Roarke. Power on.”
The console flashed on, a sea of jeweled lights and controls.
Roarke acknowledged. Power on.
“We’ll want coffee,” he said to Eve.
“I’ll get it.” She programmed a full pot from the office AutoChef, poured two tall mugs. When she turned, Roarke stood where he was, watched her. Waited.
“All right.” She crossed over, set his mug down, placed hers on the jut that held the auxiliary computer.
For Morris, yes, she thought. But not only.
“My father worked for Ricker. Your father worked for him, and we’ve established before that they met, and were working on the same job before the night in Dallas. Before I killed my father.”
“Before you, an eight-year-old girl, stopped him from raping you again.”
“Okay.” Truth could still dry the throat and chill the blood. “The fact is, he’s still dead. So’s your father. And your father pulled a double-cross, on Ricker, on a weapons deal. About twenty-four years ago.”
“In Atlanta.”
“Yeah. In Atlanta. Down the line, you worked for Ricker.”
Roarke’s tone turned very cool. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Were associated with him. Jump further down the line, Ricker shows up in New York, and he’s hell-bent on destroying you.”
“And you.”
“Three years ago, when Ricker was probably dreaming about eating your liver, Coltraine connects with Ricker’s son. In Atlanta. Between that point and this point, we brought Max Ricker down. One year ago. And a couple months after that Colt
raine requests a transfer to New York. She gets cozy with the chief medical examiner. A man I have a close work relationship with, and who we both consider a friend. Alex Ricker comes to New York; she dies. I think when you’ve got that many intersections, you have to take a real hard look at the road.”
“And how will this be, for you, if this somehow tracks back to your father and mine?”
“I don’t know. I guess we’ll have to find out.” She took a breath. “I don’t know how it’ll be for either of us, but we need to find out.”
“We do, yes.”
“The killer sent her weapons, her badge back to me. Personally. Maybe he’s got a mole in Dispatch, and arranged for me to be assigned. But the fact is, it doesn’t take a brain trust to figure out that even if someone else had caught this case, I’d have been involved. Because of Morris. That package was always going to come to me.”
“Then we’re on the same page. And the note inside the package becomes more a threat than bravado.”
“Possibly. She wasn’t a street cop, Roarke. She was a puzzle solver, a detail chaser. But she wasn’t street, sure as hell wasn’t New York street. Nobody’s going to take me with my own weapon. Damn if I’ll have that in my jacket at the end of the day.”
He nearly smiled. “So pride will keep you safe?”
“Among other things. If I’m a target, why take her down? Why put every cop in the city on alert, then go for me?” She faced Roarke over the wink of jeweled lights. “I’m better than she was. That’s not bragging, that’s just fact. So it’s smarter to try to take me out cold than to try it when I’m already looking for a cop killer. And when, within the first twenty-four hours, I’ll find Alex Ricker in her files.”
“Logical. And somewhat comforting.”
“In any case, that’s all speculation. We need data.”
“It’ll take some time, to get under the layers.”
“I’ll use the auxiliary and keep going through her case files.”
Roarke sat, and began to peel at the first layers.
Ricker, he thought. The name was like a virus in his life, springing out, spreading, then crawling back into hiding only to slither out again. And again.
He had reason to wonder if Ricker had been responsible for jamming the knife in Patrick Roarke’s throat in that alley in Dublin years ago. And that, Roarke admitted, was the single thing he’d have to be grateful to Ricker for.
Not true, he corrected, not entirely true.
He could be grateful for what he’d learned during his association with Ricker. He’d learned how far he would go, and where he wouldn’t go. He knew it had both amused and annoyed Max Ricker that he wouldn’t deal in the sex trade when it involved minors or the unwilling. That he wouldn’t kill on command, or for the sake of spilling blood.
He’d taken lives in his time, Roarke admitted. He’d spilled blood. But always for purpose. Never for profit. Never for sport.
He supposed, in some oddly twisted way, he’d learned more of his own lines, his own moralities from Max Ricker than he had from his own unlamented father.
What, he wondered, had Alex Ricker learned from his father?
German boarding schools, Roarke noted. Military type. Very strict, very costly. Private tutors on holidays, then private university. Studied in business, finance, languages, politics, and international law. Played football—soccer to the Yanks.
Covering many bases there.
No marriages, no children on record.
Alex Maximum Ricker, age thirty-three, residences in Atlanta, Berlin, Paris, and most recently, New York. Financier and entrepreneur listed as occupations of record.
Also covering a lot of bases. Current net worth: 18.3 million.
Oh, no, there’ll be more than that. So, Roarke thought. Let’s get down to it.
He worked steadily for an hour, ordering multiple runs and chipping away manually.
“Covering asses, too, aren’t you now?” Roarke mumbled to himself when he hit a block, shoved and tunneled around and under it. “Not so quick to toot your own horn as your father was. Smarter. All that posturing and preening helped bring him down, didn’t it? Ah, now, there’s a start.”
“What? What have you got?”
“Hmmm?”
“I’ve got nothing.” Eve swiveled around to him. “Zip. You’ve got something. What?”
“Apparently, it’s not coffee,” he said with a glance at his empty mug.
“What am I, a domestic droid?”
“If so, why aren’t you wearing your frilly white apron and little white cap, and nothing else?”
She sent him a pained look of sincere bafflement. “Why do men think that kind of getup is sexy?”
“Hmm, let me think. Mostly naked women wearing only symbols of servitude. No, I can’t understand it myself.”
“Perverts, your entire species. What have you got?”
“Besides a very clear picture of you in my head wearing a frilly white apron and little white cap?”
“Jesus, I’ll get the damn coffee if you’ll cut it out.”
“What I’ve found is the reason Alex Ricker hasn’t blipped on my radar, not that I’ve given him much thought. But from a purely business standpoint, why he hasn’t blipped.”
“Why?”
Roarke gestured to the wall screen when he ordered data to transfer there. “He’s scattered and spread himself out, with numerous small to mid-size companies. None of them with holdings that cross the line into interesting.”
“What’s the line where they become interesting?”
“Oh, for me? Eight to ten million, unless I’m looking to acquire small, individual properties or businesses.”
“Oh yeah, anything under ten mil’s boring.” She rose to get the coffee. “Is he laundering or hiding income?”
“Not that I’ve found so far. He’s bought or established companies. Some he owns outright, others a controlling interest. Still others a small percentage. Some of his companies are arms of his other companies.”
He took the coffee she brought him, patted his knee in invitation, and laughed at her sour look. “Some of his companies own property—homes in Athens, Tokyo, Tuscany. He holds some of these interests through an Atlanta-based operation called—logically enough—Varied Interests. Others are held by the Morandi Corporation, which was his mother’s name.”
“Dead mother, as I remember.”
“Very dead. He was six when she ingested an unhealthy number of tranqs and supposedly fell or leaped from her bedroom window, twenty-two stories above the streets of Rome.”
“Where was Max Ricker?”
“Excellent question. According to statements in the very thin police file on her death, he was in Amsterdam when she jumped, or fell. Alex also has a company he called Maximum Exports, which owns—among other things—the antique store in Atlanta that was hit. There’s no criminal on him. He’s been questioned on various accounts by various authorities on various continents. But never charged.
“All of these business activities and the structuring are perfectly legal,” he told her. “Close to the edge on some, but never over. I’ve no doubt, unless he’s a complete bint, he’s got a second set of books on every one of his enterprises, and considerable funds sheltered in coded accounts.”
Roarke sat back, sipping coffee. “He stays under the radar, you see. Very carefully under. No splash, no flash. Quietly successful businesses that make no real noise. Until you dig down, put them together and see there’s really one entity that’s worth about ten times what his official data lists for him.”
“And there’s probably more.”
“Oh, very likely. I can find it, now that I’ve got his pattern. I could find those coded accounts, with enough time.”
“Those would probably still be on the legal side. What about the illegal side?”
“Some of these may be fronts. Or I’ll find smaller, more obsure businesses that serve as fronts. An antiques business—of which he has several w
orldwide—is always a handy way to smuggle all manner of things. There’s an easier way for me to find out if he’s taken over some of his father’s trade. I can ask people who know people.”
“Not yet. For one, I don’t want the people who know people to signal him we’re coming to see him. For another, I don’t want to get so bogged down in Alex Ricker, when there’s no clear evidence he’s involved. Coltraine’s the priority. I’m going to run her financials. I’m going to run them from here because I don’t want to set up any flags there either. I’m hoping she was clean, and if she was clean, I don’t want to be responsible for even a whisper she might’ve been dirty.”
