by J. D. Robb
"Has to be alive to be a hostage."
She met Feeney's gaze. "Yeah, but he doesn't have to stay that way. Big place," she continued, studying the diagram of the apartment. "Chad's got himself a big-ass place. No telling where they are in it."
"They came in chummy," Feeney reminded her. "Maybe he takes the toy, leaves Dix alive."
She shook her head. "Self-preservation comes first. Dix is too big a risk, so he has to eliminate him. Easier to do it now. He's killed twice before and gotten away clean."
To better absorb the whole of it, she stepped back from the screen. "We seal it up, we seal it up tight. Isolate him. Let's go with decoy first. Delivery. See if we can get Dix to open the door. He opens it, we get him out, move in. He doesn't, we assume he's dead or incapacitated and we take the door."
She pushed at her hair. "We work on getting eyes and ears in there, but we try the decoy now. This turns into a hostage situation, you take the negotiations?" she asked Feeney.
"I'll get it set up."
"Okay, somebody get me a package. McNab, you're playing messenger. I want three of the tactical team up, positioned here, here, here." She tapped the screen again. "Feeney, security and the coms are on you. McNab, let's move."
She looked at Roarke. "Can you ditch the locks on the door without letting anyone inside know?"
"Shouldn't be a problem."
"Okay." She rolled her shoulders. "Let's rock."
31.
Inside the apartment, Dix suggested another drink. "Since I'm blowing off the day, I might as well make it worthwhile."
Calculating, Trevor watched him get out a martini shaker. The doorman had seen him come inside. Security disks would show him entering. If he needed a little extra time, it might be wise to set the stage for an accident. Alcohol in the bloodstream, a slip in the bathroom? He could and would be gone before they found the body. Gain a little more of a buffer while they investigated what would appear, on the surface, to be a drunken fall.
My God, he was clever. Wouldn't his grandfather be proud?
"Wouldn't say no to a drink. I'd really like to see the piece."
"Sure, sure." Dix waved him off while he mixed drinks.
He could send a text message from Dix's 'link to his office, Trevor decided. Set it to transmit ten minutes after he left the building. Security and the doorman would both verify his exit if need be, and the message would appear—until they dug deeper—to have been sent by Dix himself, alive and well, and alone in his apartment.
God was in the details.
He could knock him out, anywhere, then cart him into the bath, angle him, let him fall so that his head hit the corner of the tub, say.
Bathrooms were death traps, after all.
"What's the joke?" Dix asked as Trevor began to laugh.
"Nothing, nothing. Little private moment." He took the glass. His prints wouldn't matter. In fact, all the better that they show up on a glass. Nice, companionable drink with a friend. Not trying to hide a thing.
"So, what's wrong with your father?"
"He's an anal-retentive, stiff-necked, disapproving asshole."
"A little harsh, seeing as he's dying."
"What?" Trevor cursed himself as he remembered. "Being dead doesn't change what he is. I'm not playing the hypocrite over it. Sorry he's sick and all that, but I've got to live my own life. Old man's already had his, such as it is."
"Jesus." With a half laugh, Dix drank. "That's cold. I've got issues with my father. Hell, who doesn't? But I can't imagine just shrugging it off if I knew he was going to kick. Pretty young for taking the slide, isn't he?" He squinted as he tried to remember. "Can't have hit even seventy yet. Guy's just cruising into his prime."
"He hasn't ever been prime." Because it amused him, Trevor spun out the tale. Lying was nearly as fun as cheating, and cheating came very close to stealing. Killing didn't give quite the same rush. It was so damn messy. It was more of a needs-to-be-done kind of chore. But he was beginning to believe he'd enjoy ending Dix.
"Some genetic deal," he decided. "His mother passed it to him. Son of a bitch probably passed it to me. Some brain virus or happy shit. He'll go loony before he kicks. We'll have to put him away in some plush cage for mental defectives."
"God, Trevor, that's really rough." A glimmer of the man Samantha Gannon had enjoyed eked through the haze of gin. "I'm sorry. Really sorry. Look, forget the money. I didn't know it was something like this. I wouldn't feel right taking money for the loan when you've got all this on your head. Just to keep it clean, I'll draw up a paper, a receipt, but I can't take any money for it."
"That's big of you, Chad." It got better and better. "I don't want to trade on sympathy."
"Look, forget it. Your father's got a sentimental attachment to the piece, I get that. I'm the same way myself. I couldn't enjoy owning it if I thought about him being upset, under the circumstances, that it was sold off. When, ah, the rest of the collection comes to you, and you want to unload any of it, just keep me in mind."
"That's a promise. Hate to cut this short, but I really should get moving."
"Oh, sure." Dix drained the last of his drink, set the glass aside. "Come on back to the display room. You know, the reason I took this apartment was for this room. The space, the light. Samantha used to say I was obsessed."
"She's your ex, what do you care what she used to say?"
"Miss her sometimes. Haven't found anyone else who interests me half as much as she did. Talk about obsessions." He stopped, blocking the doorway. "She got so wrapped up in that book she couldn't think about anything else. Didn't want to go out, barely noticed if I was around. And what's the big deal? Just a rehash of family stories, and that bullshit about diamonds. Who cares? Could it be more yesterday?"
Yes, Trevor thought, it would be a pleasure to kill this tedious moron. "You never know what'll juice the unwashed masses."
"You're telling me. The thing's selling like it was the new Word of the Lord. You were pretty interested," he remembered. "Did you ever read that copy I passed you?"
"Scanned through it." Another reason to snip this thread, he reminded himself. And quickly. "It wasn't as compelling as I'd thought it would be. Like you said, it's yesterday. I'm a little pressed for time now, Chad."
"Sorry, sidetracked." He turned toward the wide etched-glass door. Through it Trevor could see the floating shelves, the glossy black cabinets all lined or filled with antique toys and games. "Keep it locked and passcoded. Don't trust the cleaning service."
The lock light continued to blink red, and the computer's voice informed him he'd entered an incorrect passcode.
"That's what I get on three martinis. Hold on a sec."
He reentered while Trevor stood vibrating behind him. He'd spotted the shining yellow bulldozer, parked blade-up on a wide, floating shelf.
"You're going to need a box for it," Dix commented as he rekeyed. "I keep some stored in the utility closet off the kitchen. Some padding there, too."
He paused, leaned on the glass door until Trevor imagined bashing his head against it. "You're going to have to promise to return it in the same condition, Trev. I know your father's careful, and you've got a decent collection yourself, so you know how important it is."
"I won't be playing in the dirt with it."
"I actually did that when I was a kid. Can't believe it now. Still have a couple of trucks and one of the first model airbuses. Bunged up pretty bad, but sentimental value there."
The light went to green, and the doors slid open. "Might as well get the full effect. Lights on full."
They flashed on, illuminated the nearly invisible shelves from above and below. The brightly painted toys shone bright as jewels with their ruby reds, sapphire blues, ambers and emeralds.
Trevor's gaze tracked across, and he noted the wide curved window, without privacy screen. Casually, he crossed over, as if studying the collection, and checked the windows on the building next door.
Screened. He couldn't
be sure, not a hundred percent sure there wasn't someone on the other side looking over. He'd have to make certain Dix was out of view when he put him down.
"Been collecting since I was ten. Seriously since I was about twenty, but in the last five years I've really been able to indulge myself. Do you see this? Farm section. It's an elevator, John Deere replica in pressed steel at one-sixteenth scale. Circa 1960. Mint condition, and I paid a mint for it, but it was worth it. And this over here . . ." He took a few steps, swayed. "Whew. Gin's gone to my head. I'm going to grab some SoberUp. Look around."
"Hold on." That wouldn't do, not at all. Trevor wanted the alcohol, and plenty of it, in his system. Added to that, the impairment of it would make it simpler to kill him. "What's this piece?"
It was enough to draw Dix's interest, to have him shift direction and move just out of the line of sight of the side window. "Ah, game department," Dix said cheerfully. "It's a pinball machine, toy-sized version, baseball theme. Circa 1970. Be worth more in the original box, but there's something to be said for the fact it saw a little action."
"Hmm." Trevor turned around, grinned broadly. "Now, that's a hell of a piece."
"Which?" Dix turned as well. "In the military section?"
Trevor slipped his accordion baton from his pocket. "The tank?"
"Oh yeah, that's a jewel."
As Dix took a step, Trevor snapped his wrist to extend the baton. He swung it up in an arc, then brought it down across the back of Dix's skull.
Dix fell as Trevor had positioned him, away from the shelves and out of the line of sight of the unprotected window.
"Spending this much time in your company," Trevor said as he took out a handkerchief and meticulously cleaned off the lethal wand, "I've discovered something I only suspected previously. You're an unbearably tedious geek. The world's better off without you. But first things first."
He stepped over the body, toward the toy that had once been his father's. As he reached out, the doorbell buzzed.
His heart didn't leap, but stayed as steady as it had when he'd fractured Dix's skull. But he spun around, and calculated. To ignore it—and how he wanted to ignore it, to take what was his and see it at last—would be a mistake.
They'd been seen coming into the building, riding up in the elevator. In a building like this there would be security cameras in the halls outside. He'd have to acknowledge whoever was at the door and dismiss them.
More irritated than uneasy, he hurried to answer the summons. He engaged the security screen first and studied the thin young man in an eye-searing pink shirt covered with purple palm trees. The man looked bored and was chewing what appeared to be a fist-sized wad of gum. He carried a thick zip-bag. Even as Trevor watched, the man blew a bubble the size of a small planet and hit the buzzer again.
Trevor flicked on the intercom. "Yes?"
"Delivery for Dix. Chad Dix."
"Leave it there."
"No can do. Need a sig. Come on, buddy, I gotta get back on my horse and ride."
Cautious, Trevor widened his view. He saw the purple skinpants, the pink air boots. Where did these people get their wardrobes? He reached for the locks, then drew his hand back.
Wasn't worth the risk. There'd be too many questions if he accepted a package, if he signed Dix's name, or his own, for that matter.
"Leave it with the downstairs desk. They'll sign. I'm busy."
"Hey, buddy—"
"I'm busy!" Trevor snapped, and disengaged the intercom. He watched, just to be sure, and sneered as the messenger flipped up his middle finger and walked out of view.
Satisfied, he switched off the screen. It was time he accepted his own special delivery, long overdue.
***
"Shut down the coms and screens," Eve ordered Feeney through her communicator. "We'll have to take the door."
"Shutting them down."
She turned to McNab. "Nice job. I'd've bought it."
"If that was Dix and he wasn't under duress, he'd have opened the door." McNab drew his weapon from the base of his spine and holstered it at his side.
"Yeah. Take care of the locks," she told Roarke. "Weapons on stun," she ordered the team. "I don't want a hostage taken down. Hold fire until my command. Peabody and I go in first. You take the right. McNab, you're left. You, you, you, fan out, second wave. I want this door secured behind us. Roarke?"
"Nearly there, Lieutenant." He was crouched, delicately disarming locks and alarms with tools as thin as threads.
She squatted beside him, lowered her voice. "You're not going in."
"Yes, I don't believe I heard my name in today's lineup."
She suspected he was armed—illegally—and that he would—probably—be discreet about it. But she couldn't justify the risk. "I can't take a civilian through the door until the suspect is contained. Not with this many cops around."
He shifted his gaze and those laser blue eyes met hers. "You don't need to explain or attempt to quell even my infamous ego."
"Good."
"And you're in."
She nodded. "You're a handy guy to have around. Now step back so we can take this asshole."
She knew it was hard for him to do just that, to stand aside while she went through the door. Whittier was almost certainly armed, and he would kill without hesitation. But Roarke straightened, moved away from the team.
She'd remember that, she thought—or she'd try to remember that—when things got heated between them as they tended to do. She'd remind herself that, when it mattered to her, he'd stepped aside so she could do her job.
"Feeney? Emergency evac?"
"It's down. He's boxed."
"We're on the door. Peabody?"
"Ready, sir."
With her weapon in her right hand, Eve eased the unsecured door open with her left. With one sharp nod, she booted it, went in low and fast.
"Police!" She swept, eyes and weapon, as Peabody peeled to the right and McNab came in from behind and shot left. "Trevor Whittier, this is the police. This building is surrounded. All exits are blocked. Come out, hands up and in full view."
She used hand signals to direct her team to other areas, other rooms as she moved forward.
"You've got nowhere to go, Trevor."
"Stay back! I'll kill him. I have a hostage. I have Dix, and I'll kill him." She held up a closed fist, signaling her team to stop, to hold positions, then eased around the corner. "I said I'll kill him."
"I heard you." Eve stayed where she was, looking through the open glass doors. Light glittered on the toy-decked shelves and on the blood smeared on the white floor.
Trevor sat in the center of it, the prize he'd killed for beside him. He had an arm hooked around Dix's neck, and a knife to his throat.
Dix's eyes were closed, and there was blood on the otherwise spotless floor. But she could see the subtle rise and fall of Dix's chest. Alive then. Still alive.
They looked like two overgrown boys who'd played just a little too hard and rough.
She kept her weapon trained and steady. "Looks like you already did. Kill him."
"He's breathing." Trevor dug the point of the knife into flesh, carving a shallow slice. Blood dribbled over the blade. "I can change that, and I will. Put down that weapon."
"That's my line, Trevor. There are two ways you can leave this room. You can leave it walking, or we can carry you out."
"I'll kill him first. Even if you stun me, I'll have time to slit his throat. You know it, or you'd have hit me already. You want to keep him alive, you back out. You back out now!"
"Kill him and the only thing I put down is you. Do you want to die today, Trevor?"
"You want him to die?" He jerked Dix's head back, and stirring slightly, Dix moaned. "If you don't clear this place, that's what's going to happen. We start negotiating, and we start now. Back out."
"You've been watching too many vids. You think I'm going to deal with you over a single civilian who's probably going to die anyway from the looks of th
ings? Grab some reality, Trev." She smiled when she said it, wide and white. "I got pictures in my head of the two women you killed. It'd just fucking make my day to end you. So go ahead, finish him off."
"You're bluffing. Do you think I'm stupid ?"
"Yeah, actually. You're sitting there on the floor trying to talk me into negotiating when you're holding a knife, and I have this handy little thing. You know what they do when they're on full? It's not pretty. And I'm getting a little tired of this conversation. You want to die over a toy truck, your choice."
"You have no idea what I have. Clear the others out. I know there are others out there. Clear them out, and we'll talk. I'll make you the deal of a lifetime."
"You mean the diamonds." She gave a quick, rude snort. "Jesus, you are stupid. I gave you too much credit. I've already got them, Trevor. That's a plant. Set you up. I set you up and used that clown for bait. Worked like a charm. It's just an old toy, Trevor, and you fell for it."
"You're lying!" There was shock now, and there was anger, clear on his face.
As his head whipped around toward the bright yellow truck, and his knife hand lowered a fraction, Eve shot a stream into his right shoulder. His arm spasmed, and the knife fell from his shaking fingers.
Even as his body jerked back in reaction, she was across the room, with her weapon pressed to his throat. "Gee, you caught me. I was lying."
She was glad he was conscious, glad she could see it sink in. Tears of rage gathered in the corners of his eyes as she dragged him clear of Dix.
"Suspect's contained. Get medical in here!" It gave her a dark satisfaction to flip him onto his belly, to drag his hands back for the restraints.
She'd lied about the diamonds, but not about the pictures in her head. "Andrea Jacobs," she said in a whisper, close to his ear. "Tina Cobb. Think about them, you worthless fuck. Think about them for the rest of your miserable life."
"I want what's mine! I want what belongs to me!"
"So did they. You have the right to remain silent," she began, and flipped him back over so she could watch his face while she read him his rights.
