by J. D. Robb
“That concludes the comic relief portion of our program. Who?”
“Two that might have gotten close to it are dead, proving my previous point as you’ll note, I’m not. There may be one or two others. I’ll do some checking.”
“I want names.”
His eyes cooled. “I’m not a weasel, Lieutenant, even for you. I’ll do the checking. If there’s a chance either of the ones I’m thinking of might be involved, I’ll tell you. But not before I see for myself.”
She strode over to him. “Lives are on the line, so you can eject your thief’s code of honor.”
“I’m aware lives are on the line. There was a day all I had to my name was that code of honor, battered as it might be. I’ll see to this, and give you what there is as soon as I do. For now, I can tell you that Gerade here wouldn’t be able to plan out such a complex and intricate operation. He’s not a thief, even a poor one. Naples, yes, he could generate the talent, and he’s plenty of his own. He’s a top-line smuggler with excellent connections, no honor a’tall, and a fine transpo system in the illegal export business. If you’re looking for links to Yost, he’s my current bet.”
She bit back on impatience, reminding herself her first order of business wasn’t to catch a thief, but to stop a killer.
“All right, I’ll get on him.”
“In the morning. You need a break. You have a headache.”
“I don’t have a headache.” Her mouth moved to sulk. “Hardly.”
In a lightning move, he kicked her left foot out from under her, snagged her by the waist, and caught her in his lap on her way down.
“I know just the thing for hardly a headache.”
She tried to get an elbow into his gut, but he already had her arms pinned. Besides, he smelled fabulous. “I’m not calling you Mr. Montegue.”
“You’re such a spoilsport.” He bit her ear. “Just for that, I don’t want you in my lap.”
“Fine. Then I’ll just—”
The next thing she knew she was flat on her back on the floor, and under him. “Do you know how many beds are in this house?” she asked when she got her breath back.
“Not off the top of my head, but I can look it up.”
“Never mind,” she said, and pulled the leather tie from his hair.
chapter eighteen
“Naples, Dominic J.,” Eve began when her team was assembled for the morning briefing. “Age fifty-six, married, two children. Current residence, London, England, with alternate residences in Rome, Sardinia, New L.A., East Washington, Rio, and Caspian Bay, Delta Colony.”
Like her team, she studied the image on-screen of a handsome, dark-eyed man with sharp features and a carefully styled mane of deep brown hair.
“The Naples organization, of which he is CEO, deals primarily in communication systems, with the main area handling off planet work. He’s known for his charitable work, particularly in the education sphere, and has strong political connections.”
She paused, ordered a second image on split screen. “His son, Dominic II, is the U.S. liaison to Delta Colony and is reputed to have aspirations for a higher office. Dominic II also happens to be old friends with Michel Gerade, the son of the French ambassador.”
She added the image of a man with lustrous waves of gold hair, a full-lipped mouth, and, in her opinion, a soft chin.
“On record,” she continued, “Naples is dingy, but unsoiled. There have been, in the past, some speculations, some questions, some minor investigations into activities of some of the arms of Naples Org, but nothing that stuck, or made a smear. My source, however, reports that Naples is, and has been, involved in various criminal activities. Illegals, smuggling, e-fraud, theft, extortion, and very likely murder. He’s also our most solid connection to Yost.”
She shifted images, ordered up a new set of triples on-screen. “These three men, Naples, Hinrick, and Gerade, met in Paris eight months ago, ostensibly to discuss plans for a multinational com system. Hinrick is a successful smuggler, and though his official record isn’t quite as clean as Naples, it passes. Winifred Cates acted as interpreter for these men during their meetings. This com system never developed, and Winifred Cates was murdered. Her case remains open, and she is listed as one of Sylvester Yost’s victims.”
She shifted images again. “Britt and Joseph Hague, deceased. Known smugglers. They were murdered six months ago, and are listed as victims of Yost’s. This has been confirmed by the recovery of two lengths of silver wire yesterday by the local authorities.
“Their bodies were found in Cornwall. Yost spent a few days in London prior to their deaths. Naples’s main base is now London. These smugglers are reputed to have trespassed on the turf of a bigger, more powerful organization. It’s suspected that they were hit to remove them from competition, and to make a point to others who might be tempted to infringe.”
She picked up her coffee. She’d had less than three hours of sleep and needed the jolt. “Three years ago in Paris, a female entertainer was beaten, raped, garroted with a silver wire. Monique Rue,” she continued as she brought the woman’s face on-screen. “Twenty-five, single, mixed-race female was found in an alleyway a few blocks from the club where she worked. She had been, according to statements made by friends and coworkers, involved in an affair with Michel Gerade. She was becoming dissatisfied with mistress status. Gerade, good friend of Dominic II, clung to his diplomatic status, and issued a single statement through a representative.”
Eve picked up the hard copy of the statement and read off the gist. “He and Miss Rue were friendly. He admired her talent. There had been no sexual relationship.” And tossed the paper down again.
“The French cops knew that was bullshit, or whatever the French word for bullshit is, but their hands were tied. In addition, Gerade had a solid alibi as he was vacationing with his wife on the Riviera when Rue was murdered. No direct link between Yost and Gerade was established.”
“Until now,” Feeney muttered under his breath.
“Lastly, we have Nigel Luca, and his sheet’s as long as my left leg. Weapons running primarily. Eight years ago he was beaten, raped, and found with a silver wire around his neck outside a dive in Seoul. My source reports that Luca was, at that time, employed by one Naples, Dominic J., and had likely been, as was his habit, doing a bit of skimming off the top.”
“It looks like Yost is one of Naples’s favorite toys,” Feeney put in. “How do we get him?”
“We need a hell of a lot more before we try to extradite. This guy is well protected. I can and will pass my data onto Interpol and onto Global.”
“You think they don’t have some of this?” Feeney asked.
“Yeah, I think they’ve got some of this, and aren’t sharing. I also think they haven’t clicked all the links. So we will. And meanwhile, we dig. I need EDD to push for more, to find every little thread that’s out there that may tie Naples to our man. My gut tells me Gerade is the weak link here, but we can’t touch the greasy little bastard. Same goes for Dominic II, but the second generation here doesn’t seem to be as smart, or as careful as the first. Sooner or later they’ll make the right mistake. Long goal is to be ready when they do. But unless they make it on our turf, it’s Interpol or Global.”
“We’ll set up flags in EDD. Anything comes through we’ll document it, and pass it on.”
“Good. All this applies to our current agenda in that it gives us a potential motive for the two killings under investigation.” She brought up the chart she’d worked out the night before.
“The Palace Hotel. Darlene French. Roarke. Magda Lane. The brownstone uptown. Jonah Talbot. Roarke. Magda Lane. The victim was involved in publication projects on Lane. The merchandise currently displayed, The Palace Hotel, and about to go on the block is potentially worth upwards of one billion. Naples is a thief with a widespread com network behind him. Hinrick is a smuggler with what is reputed to be one of the best transfer and transpo organizations. Gerade just strikes me as greedy.”
“It’s the greedy ones you gotta watch,” Feeney commented.
“Agreed. Speculation. What if the business in Paris between these three men had to do with a plan to heist the auction merchandise? Winifred sees or hears something off. She was a smart woman. She attempted to contact her friend in the FBI but was killed before that connection was made.”
“Why hire Yost to kill a couple of bystanders in New York?” McNab crossed his legs. It was the first sentence he’d uttered during the briefing. Across the room, Peabody remained silent. “You do somebody on the site you plan to hit, it’s going to beef up security.”
“But we’d be looking for a killer. Not a thief. Shake up the staff by killing one of them in a brutal fashion, right in a guest room. Frustrate security by sliding right through them. Takes the mind and energy off the auction, puts it elsewhere. Then you hit again. Where does the investigation center? On who might have some kind of vendetta against Roarke. That was the motive we focused on. But what if it’s not a vendetta. Or not that on the primary level. What if it’s just profit?”
“It’s got potential.” Feeney pursed his lips. “But why bring Gerade into the mix? I don’t see as he’s got anything to offer.”
Her smile was thin and sharp as she brought up her adjusted chart, one she’d finished compiling at three A.M. that morning. “Look who happens to be one of Dominic II’s and Gerade’s playmates. Vincent Lane, Magda’s son. They’ve been running around together since their early twenties.”
“Son of a bitch.” Feeney punched the uncharacteristically silent McNab on the shoulder. “Son of a bitch.”
“Yeah, I got a nice thrill out of it, too,” Eve said and did her best to block out the deliberate way the young e-detective and her aide were ignoring each other. “Lane contributed to Dominic’s liaison campaign, and often visits Delta Colony. Both Dominic II and Gerade invested in Lane’s short-lived production company. Link by link,” Eve said, “I think we’ve got a real chain going here. To pull off a heist of this size and complexity, you need a man on the inside. Vince Lane’s as inside as they come.”
“He’s going to steal from his own mother.” Peabody spoke now, mildly outraged. “And kill to do it?”
“He’s a financial fuck-up,” Eve told her. “Over the years he’s put together and begun to put together dozens of schemes and projects. He’s pissed away his trust fund, run through the setup costs his mother gave him, twice, for businesses. He’s borrowed from her to pay off loans and I imagine a few spine-crackers, too. But for the past fourteen months, he’s been a very good boy, working for Mama. She pays him a ridiculous salary according to their financials, but he’s all but dead broke. His expenses go directly to Carlton Mince, her financial advisor. I intend to talk to him, and to Lane. Carefully. I don’t want Lane alerting anyone, Magda included, that I’m looking at him on this.”
She stopped, coming to attention when Whitney came in. She’d already sent a full update and all data to him earlier that morning.
He glanced at the wall screen, judged where she was in her briefing, then took a seat. “Continue, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Peabody and I will do a dropby on Mince and Lane at the hotel. Feeney, if you could use your connections through the IRCCA. As we’ve said, it’s probable the other agencies already have this data on Naples. And they may have more. If they do, no matter how speculative, do what you can to convince them to reach out. McNab, see the head of the event’s security at The Palace. Roarke will have already alerted him, but I want you to follow up. You’re his general dogsbody until this is over. You’ll be provided with complete dossiers on everyone involved in the security. Get to know and love them. I want the NYPSD and this team aware and apprised of every change, every step, every function of security at the hotel. A door guard has a butt rash, I want to know what kind. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Now, she drew a breath. “Commander?”
He had the faintest of smiles on his face. “Lieutenant?”
“I’d like to request that you use whatever weight you might deem appropriate with your connections in the FBI and East Washington. I want some elbow room, and Jacoby’s not going to give it to me unless . . .” She trailed off before she finished the thought, which had to do with her shoving his head up his ass. “. . . without some directive. If I can have the room, and the cooperation to bring Sylvester Yost down, I’m willing to give the feds the collar.”
“What! What!” Feeney was out of his chair, his face a furious red, his arms waving. “What the hell are you talking about? You don’t give them dick, you hear? You’ve busted your balls on this, done all the work, got closer than anyone ever has to this bastard. Would’ve had him, too, if it wasn’t for those assholes screwing us over. If you put in eight hours this week on this one case, you’ve put in eighty. You got circles under your eyes I could swim laps in.”
“Feeney—”
“Uh-uh, shut up.” He jabbed a finger at her. “You may be primary, but I still outrank you. You think I’m just going to stand back and let you pass the baton to the Feebs after you ran the damn race? Do you know what this collar could mean to you? Every agency on and off planet’s been after this bastard for twenty-five years. You bring him down, you bring him in, and you’re heading toward pinning on your captain’s bars. And don’t you stand there and tell me you don’t want them.”
“I want him more.” She wasn’t sure if she was touched, embarrassed, or annoyed by his outburst on her behalf, but she knew she had to clear the decks. “You got the anonymous source tip,” she reminded him, keeping her eyes steady on his so he’d understand she knew where it had come from. “Without that, I wouldn’t have had the Winifred angle, or at least not this soon. And without that, I wouldn’t have had a tool to use on Stowe to move onto that Paris triad. Agent Stowe put in a lot of hours and grief on her investigation, too. She gave me useful data; I promised her the collar. That’s the deal, Feeney. I made it, and I’ll keep it.”
“Well, your deal sucks. Commander—”
Whitney held up his hand. “No point in appealing to me on this one, however much I agree with you. Lieutenant Dallas heads this team. I’ll give you what weight I can, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir. Excuse me,” she said when her communicator beeped. She pulled it out, stepping aside to take the transmission.
“Jack,” Feeney said in undertones. “She deserves the collar.”
“At this point, we don’t have a collar. Let’s just see what we see. However it comes down, the department is fully aware of the work Dallas and the rest of you—”
He broke off when Eve swore.
“What the hell do you mean, you lost him? How could you lose one skinny, ugly man with a stick up his ass?”
Easily, when the skinny, ugly man also had eyes in the back of his head. Summerset had survived the Urban Wars, had worked the streets, run all kinds of cons, and though those times were past, he could still smell cop at a five-block radius.
He also knew when he was being tailed. Ditching that tail was a matter of principle, and had given him a nice warm glow of satisfaction. Though he imagined Eve had set the cops on him, possibly with Roarke’s approval, that didn’t mean he was obliged to comply.
He might have been out of the game, but he certainly wasn’t out of shape. To assume he couldn’t handle himself, defend himself, on a public street was insulting.
As it was his half-day off, he intended to stroll along Madison Avenue, do a bit of personal shopping, perhaps have a light lunch alfresco at one of his favored bistros, then if his mood held, visit a gallery before returning home and to his duties.
A civilized few hours, he thought, that would not be disrupted by the hulking presence of the nosy and pitifully inefficient police.
The fact that he could imagine, with some glee, Eve’s fury and frustration when it was reported to her that the target had vanished, barely entered into it.
Still his thin face held
a mildly smug expression as he nipped out a third-story window of a small luxury hotel, engaged the emergency escape, rode quietly down to street level, and strode purposefully to the neighboring building to take the people glide back over to Madison.
Imagine, he thought, anyone believing a couple of clumsy-footed badges could keep up with me.
He paused at a neighborhood market, perused the sidewalk display of fresh fruit, and finding it woefully substandard, made a mental note to order some peaches from one of Roarke’s agri-domes.
There would be peach melba for dessert that evening.
Still, the grapes looked reasonably promising, and he was aware Roarke liked to support local merchants. Perhaps a pound of the mixed green and red, he mused, plucking one of each color from their varitoned stems.
The merchant, a small barrel of a man plugged onto two short legs, scurried out, yipping like a terrier. He was Asian, a fourth-generation grocer. His family had run that same market, in that same spot, for nearly a century.
For the past several years, he and Summerset had gone a round or two, once a week, to their mutual satisfaction.
“You eat it, brother, you buy it!”
“My good man, I am not your brother, nor do I buy pigs in pokes.”
“What pig? Where do you see a pig? Two grapes.” He stuck out his hand. “Twenty credits.”
“Ten credits a grape?” Summerset sniffed with his long nose. “I’m amazed you can make such a statement with a straight face.”
“You ate my grapes, you pay for my grapes. Twenty credits.”
Enjoying himself, Summerset gave a weary sigh. “I may be persuaded to buy a pound of your mediocre grapes, for display purposes only. Consumption is out of the question. I will pay in dollars. One pound, eight dollars.”
“Ha! You’re trying to rob me, as usual.” An event the grocer looked forward to every week. “I’ll call the beat droid. One pound, twelve dollars.”
“If I paid such an exorbitant amount, I would either require psychiatric treatment or I would be forced to sue you for extortion. Then your lovely wife and children would be obliged to visit you in prison. As I don’t want such a responsibility, I will pay you ten dollars, and no more.”
