by J. D. Robb
“Wouldn’t you be?” As she alternated elevators with glides to the garage, Eve thought it through. “Family business. Successful one. She’s about to make a deal that expands it, takes it up a level or two. Before she can clinch it, she’s blown into a coma and wakes up in ICU. I’d be righteously pissed.”
“When you put it that way.”
Eve slipped behind the wheel. “Let’s see if it seems righteous or layered on. She knows business, and these businesses damn well. She’s bound to know the market.”
“Do you think she could be a part of it—to sweeten the deal. Coma, ICU.”
“It’s a gamble,” Eve said, pulling out into traffic. “Long shot, but let’s get an impression. And hell, let’s check Pearson’s medicals. It’s doesn’t jibe, but let’s check. He’s terminal, sees a way to sweeten the deal for his beneficiaries. Finds a screwy way to self-terminate. Low, low, low probability, but let’s not just ignore potential wackiness. After all, his wife and kids were out of harm’s way.”
As she drove—stop, start, stop—she tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “Unlikely there’s any third party in this. Neither the wife nor daughter heard their assailants talking to anyone but each other, not even on a comm. It’s going to be the two of them. Brothers, by blood or choice. Or . . . lovers. That’s a thought. They could be lovers, or spouses.”
Considering it, she turned into the hospital’s underground garage, spent longer than she liked finding a slot.
“We’re also going to see about the other patients who were in the meeting and ended up at this med center. Karson’s priority.”
“They bumped her down a level. Out of ICU, condition serious but stable. The rep—Anson Whitt, and he might be a little sweet on her—said she has burns, a concussion, head lacerations, two broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and a serious wound in her side where a hunk of shrapnel from the conference table stabbed into her.”
They located the floor, badged at the nurses’ station. The nurse on duty scowled.
“Ms. Karson is in serious condition. She needs rest, quiet, care. It would be better if you came back tomorrow.”
“Maybe, but we’re here now, and have clearance.”
“Yes, I see that. However, if the patient is sleeping, I won’t wake her for you or anyone else.”
She rounded the station, a pint-size woman with chocolate skin and the air of authority in her hard eyes. Hard eyes that turned soft with compassion when she reached the snazzy private room Karson occupied.
“The police are here, sweetie. If you’re not up to visitors they’ll come back.”
“Thanks, Jeannie. I’ve been waiting for them. It’s fine.”
“Fifteen minutes,” the nurse said with another hard eye for Eve. “You just have to buzz for me,” she told Karson, and then stepped out, eerily silent in her thick-soled shoes.
“Ms. Karson.”
Eve approached the woman in the bed. Mixed-race female, with gel patches on burns, sutures running down her left temple to the middle of her ear. Eve saw the gray pallor under the wounds, the stabilized shoulder, while the monitors gave their quiet, steady beep, beep, beep.
“Lieutenant Dallas. And Detective Peabody.” She didn’t smile. “I’m told you were here earlier when I was . . . unavailable.”
“We appreciate you seeing us now.”
“Five of my people are dead. People I knew, people who trusted me. I want justice for them, and I’ll have it, even though justice is pale and weak for those who loved them.”
She closed her bold, bright blue eyes, sighed. “I just sent my oldest friend—she came in from New Mexico—to my place to get me some personal items. But Anson, my admin, is around somewhere. He’ll be back, he won’t leave. He could get you coffee or a cold drink when he shows up again.”
“We’re fine. We’re sorry for your loss.”
“So am I. It’s incalculable, but I won’t let them win. They won’t win.”
“Win what?”
“The merger’s going through.”
“You believe this happened to stop the merger?”
“Of course I do. What other possible reason is there?”
“Who would have motive to stop it?”
“I wish I knew, specifically. Maniacs, someone hell-bent on stopping this progress, this deal. Someone with a stake in other transportation companies.”
“Have you received any threats?”
“No. I discussed just that with Loren—you met him before. I convinced him to go home, finally. I had to work myself up into a state.” She smiled a little. “I don’t do states, but I managed this one, and got him to go home to rest. I haven’t managed the same with Anson once they released him. He has a broken arm and burns, cuts and bruises. Maybe it’s as well he stays, in case he needs more treatment.”
She started to reach for the cup of water on her tray, winced.
“Let me get that for you.” Peabody stepped up, handed Karson the cup with the angled straw.
“Thanks. God it’s irritating to be stuck here—and that’s a terrible, selfish thing to say.” Those fascinating eyes welled up before Eve watched her will back the tears. “I’m alive, and I’ll recover. No threats, sorry.”
“Did you know Paul Rogan?”
“I came to know him during the course of the deal. His marketing concepts, angles, interest, were a plus for me. When this happened—only this morning? My God.”
She took a breath, sipped at the water. “When I first came to, understood what happened, I was stunned, because I liked him, respected him. I was so angry. Then Loren told me about his wife and daughter, about what was done. I want to be angry, I want to be enraged at Paul Rogan. But I can’t. I see his face now, how pale it was, his eyes full of tears, the way his hand shook. I can see that now, looking back. And, oh sweet Jesus, how Derrick walked right to him, laid his hands on Paul’s shoulders in concern, asking him what was wrong. I stepped back—you see, I stepped away to give Derrick and Paul a moment. We hadn’t merged yet, and this was Derrick’s man, his company, so I stepped away. If I hadn’t . . .”
“Did Rogan speak?”
“He said—I think: ‘I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.’ I think. I can’t swear to it. And then it was like the world went white, blinding white, and I felt myself thrown back. A shocking, terrible pain.” Her hand crept to her side. “Then nothing. Just nothing, until I woke up in ICU.”
“Have you had to let any of your employees go in the last year? Anyone who might have caught wind of the merger, any of the details.”
“The serious talks didn’t begin in earnest until midsummer. We did begin sooner, of course, easily a year ago. Testing the waters, running the numbers, working out the legalities and regulations. But in earnest, with real purpose and direction, in July. We were able to keep it quiet and contained until the fall, but, of course, these things leak out. But to the point, there’s always some turnover.”
“Do any stick out?”
“I don’t micromanage my company.” That half smile again. “I’m sure many would disagree there. But I believe in giving my department heads authority, or they wouldn’t be department heads. Not all of my people were fully on board with the merger from the outset. They came around. If I knew or suspected anyone, absolutely anyone, capable of doing what was done, I’d tell you without hesitation. Is there anyone you suspect? Anyone?”
“We’re actively following any and all leads.”
Karson hissed out an impatient breath. “That’s company boss talk. It takes one to know one.”
“It’s still truth.”
A man, no more than thirty, handsome despite the burn gel, arm stabilizer, and the exhaustion in wide hazel eyes, came to the doorway.
“Willi.”
“It’s all right, Anson. It’s the police.”
He walked to the side of the bed, took her hand. “Why don’t I talk to them outside?”
“When they’re done with me.”
“Jeann
ie said to tell them their time’s about up.”
“And she’s fierce. Soften her up a little, would you? Get us another few minutes.”
“That’s all right,” Eve told them. “We have enough for now. If you think of any more, have any questions we can answer, you can contact either of us.”
“You need to keep me updated. There are memorials I won’t be able to attend. I need to know what’s happening.”
“We’ll keep you informed.” Eve glanced at Anson. “Why don’t we step out?”
“Let me get you some fresh water,” Peabody offered.
“Thanks. I don’t suppose you could talk Jeannie into some coffee? I’d settle for tea, even the herbal crap, but something that’s not flat water?”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Eve stepped out with Anson. He angled himself out of view of Karson’s bed, pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Anything I can do to help. I thought she was dead. I couldn’t do anything. My friend, one of my closest friends is dead. I watched it happen, and I couldn’t do anything.”
“How long have you been Karson’s admin?”
“Three and a half years. I was her admin’s assistant, and when Marcia retired, I took the position.”
“You knew about the merger from the outset?”
“Yes.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“Willi—Ms. Karson’s got the smartest business brain I know. And she cares, genuinely cares about not just the company but the people who work for her. It’s what makes Econo such a good fit with Quantum. Mr. Pearson had the same qualities, at least from my point of view.”
“Anybody think differently?”
“There were a few doubters, some dissents, but as the deal took shape, that faded off. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know anyone who would have done this. And anyone, absolutely anyone who works for, who knows Willi, would know she’d push through it. No way she’d let the deal fall apart.
“I don’t like leaving her alone for too long.”
“Just another minute. As her admin, you’d see her correspondence, set up her appointments. Did anything strike you as threatening, even subtly?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“On a personal level? Someone who might want to harm her?”
“She has an ex, a jerk, but there’s no way. Honestly, just no way. They’re not friendly, but I’d know if he’d ever been violent. He’s more of an opportunistic asshole.”
“Name.”
“Crap, crap. Okay. Jordan Banks. Trust-fund type, swanks around, pretends to work in the art world, but mostly swanks.”
“Don’t like him much?”
“At all, but he wouldn’t do this.”
“How about you—do you have a more personal relationship with Ms. Karson?”
“Sure I—Oh, it’s not like that. I mean to say, I love her—but not like that. I have a girl, a sort of fiancée. Well, I haven’t asked her yet, but I’m going to. Going through this wakes you up. But I love Willi—just not romantically. That would be . . . just off. I work for her, and she’s, well, older.”
Eve saw Peabody go back into Karson’s room with a go-cup, wound things up.
“If you think of anything else—”
“I hope I do. My brain feels upside down right now, so I hope I do. My best friend, Lieutenant, blown apart right in front of me. We went to the Knick’s game last night, and now he’s . . . I can’t get it out of my head.”
Eve let him go, joined up with Peabody.
“It sure seemed like righteously pissed to me,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, it rings, for both of them. She has an ex. Jordan Banks. The admin doesn’t like him—doesn’t see him in this, but doesn’t like him. Let’s run him. And we’ll see if the guard nurse can give us more names and locations in this place for the other injured.”
“She stopped scowling when I asked for coffee or tea for Karson. It was herbal tea, but she stopped scowling.”
“Then you take point,” Eve said.
7
They made the rounds at the hospital, but pulled no new information.
“We’ll need statements from the rest of the wits, injured and not,” Eve said as they started back down to their vehicle. “But it’s unlikely any break’s going to come from there.”
“I can’t see anybody in that room being complicit, at least not knowingly.”
“We work on unknowingly. Connections, however negligible, to someone who fits the profile. A little careless chatter might have sparked something.”
“People brag,” Peabody agreed. “Wow, we got a big deal in the works. Or they complain. I’m whipped with all this extra work.”
“Or a spouse or lover complains to a friend because of the overtime. Add in companies of this size, some are bound to be terminated—or opt to leave. We look there. And since there’s no indicator Rogan had a sidepiece for sexing out info, we’ll take a look at Karson’s ex.”
As they got in the car, Peabody pulled up the data she’d already run on her PPC.
“Jordan Lionel Banks, age forty-six, Caucasian, one marriage at age thirty-three, one divorce at age thirty-four.”
“Hardly really counts,” Eve commented.
“Ten months from ‘I do’ to ‘Get out.’ No offspring. Ex-wife, Letitia Alison Argyle, an heiress to the Argyle Communications empire, based primarily in Great Britain. Remarried, three years in. She’s thirty-five, so some younger than Banks. Currently expecting her second child. Anyway.”
She scrolled down a bit. “Banks is fourth generation moolah. One of the Banks Information and Entertainment titans. BI&E does media, vids, home screen, digital, live theater. Just as an aside, fyi, The Icove Agenda is up against their blockbuster, Five Secrets, for best picture.”
Eve only grunted.
“Jordan Banks has residences here in New York—Upper West—and a beach place in the Hamptons. His ex-wife bought him out of their place in London when they split. He also owns a yacht, often spends part of his summer on the Med. Nice work if you can get it.”
“What work?”
“Exactly,” Peabody said. “He owns an art gallery—called the Banks Gallery—again, Upper West. His official data says he’s worth one-point-two billion. But.”
“What’s the but?” Eve aske as she headed back to Central.
“The gossip pages tell a different story. Like, his ex-wife paid him handsomely to shake him loose. He rents out the beach house, and the art gallery’s barely hanging on as Banks ran it into the red. He, like, flits. Party to party, woman to woman—usually looking for a profit angle. Unlike his two siblings, his cousins, and the older generations, he doesn’t actually put any real time into the family business, and gets away with that, drawing an income from same, as he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Gossip-wise, they pay him to keep him out of their hair,” Eve concluded.
“That’s my read,” Peabody confirmed. “He’s probably got less than half of what he puts on his official data, which is still a lot of the moolah. But his lifestyle and personal habits require more, I guess.”
“I’ll pay him a visit before I go home. Take Roarke with me,” Eve decided. “He’s good for intimidating phony rich bastards.”
She pulled into the garage, checked the time. “Okay, you can take your share home, wait it out for McNab, whichever works. I’m going to write this up, grab Roarke, and take a swing at Banks.”
“I’ll write it up,” Peabody offered. “You can probably grab Roarke quicker than I can McNab.”
“Fine. Anything fresh, tag me. I’m with Banks, then working from home.”
Eve sat where she was when Peabody left, sent Roarke a text.
In the garage if you’re done.
Under a minute later: I can be. Ten minutes.
She sat, started to review her notes, then sighed. She had ten minutes to wait. She might as well get it over with. She contacted Nadine, who’d tried to co
ntact her a half dozen times during the day.
“At last!” Nadine’s camera-ready face filled Eve’s dash screen. “I need a one-on-one about this morning’s bombing.”
“Not going to happen. I’m in the middle of it.”
“I can be fast,” the dogged on-air reporter pressed.
“Not fast enough. I’m heading back into the field. I can confirm the NYPSD investigation considers Paul Rogan a victim.”
“Will you confirm or deny terrorism?”
“Paul Rogan was not a terrorist or affiliated with any terrorist organization. I can confirm that he and his family were tortured and held against their will by two unidentified subjects for many hours, and the NYPSD is actively investigating.”
“How was he targeted? What were their demands? How—”
“I’m not going to give you any more at this time, Nadine. It’s a touchy business. I’ve got something unrelated to ask you.”
Nadine’s cat-green eyes sharpened. “So, you get to ask me, but—”
“Yeah, I get to ask you if—and it’s if—I can spring Peabody and McNab for this Hollywood thing, can you fix it for them to go?”
“Absolutely. It’s already fixed. And you and Roarke—”
“Not going to do it, but if I can cut Peabody some time, and Feeney can cut McNab the same, I will and he will.”
“I’ve already got the transpo, and they’re welcome. I have a suite with room for them, so they’re welcome there. They have seats reserved in my section for the awards. They just need the duds.”
“Solid. When do I have to let you know?”
“I’m leaving Friday, I hope by early afternoon.”
“Then I’ll get back to you on it.”
“I wish you’d come. Win or lose, it’s a moment.”
“I’ll watch on-screen. So . . . The Red Horse book. It’s good.”
Eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “You finished it?”
“Nearly, and it’s good. It’s—hell, what do I know—it’s maybe even better than the Icove book.”
Now Nadine’s clever eyes closed a moment. “I wanted it to be. It matters what you think.”
“It shouldn’t, but since it does, good work and all that.”
