In Death [47] Leverage in Death

by J. D. Robb

  “Male. Can’t give you an age range at this time. He might give you the impression of a soldier, military training.”

  “That narrows it somewhat, but Mr. Iler has a number of clients, friends, connections who are or were in the military.”

  “Okay.” She’d go through the visitors’ logs again, Eve decided. “If anyone meeting that description visits him tonight, have security notify the surveillance team, and tag me immediately. I—Hold on,” she said when her ’link signaled.

  The readout had her cursing under her breath. “Not now, Nadine.”

  “Don’t hate me.”

  “Don’t make me hate you.”

  “I pulled a prime spot on Knight at Night.”

  “Congratulations. Go away.”

  “Don’t cut me off! I am going away, that’s the point. I can’t wiggle out of this, even if I wanted to. I have a boss just like everybody, and she wants me out there.”

  A very bad feeling began to creep in. “Out where? Knight’s out of New York. I know this.”

  “Usually, yes. But she’s out of Hollywood all this week because Oscars, Dallas. And I have to get out there. I had to bump up the shuttle, add a night to the hotel.”

  “You’re fucking kidding me.”

  “I’m not, and I’m sorry. Sincerely because you’re doing a solid friend thing here, and now it’s more.”

  “When?”

  Nadine, face a little frantic, held her breath a moment. “We have to take off in two and a half hours. I’m sorry!”

  Eve closed her eyes and, while Rhoda looked on, lowered her head to pound it lightly on the counter.

  “Dallas! Dallas!”

  “Shut up a minute.” Eve gave herself a couple more pounds, sucked in a breath. “Fuck.”

  “I know, I know. Leonardo’s going to do their fittings and adjustments out there anyway. They just need to pack and be at the shuttle in . . . an hour forty five. I’m sorry, really. I don’t want to let her down, and it’s on me if you can’t cut her loose, but—”

  “They’ll be there.”

  “Oh, thank God. We owe you. We all owe you.”

  “You’re damn fucking skippy you do,” Eve snapped and clicked off. “Sorry,” she said to Rhoda.

  “Think nothing of it. Could I get you a blocker?”

  “There isn’t one big enough.” Eve strode back toward Rhoda’s office as Peabody started out.

  “It took some doing with her admin, but Mira’s clear in thirty, in person or via ’link.”

  “Good. You have to go.”

  “Talk to Mira?”

  “No. Nadine has to leave in two and a half hours. You have to get to the shuttle in an hour forty-five.”

  “But it’s tomorrow.”

  “Now it’s today. Tag McNab on the way. Go.”

  “But, but, Iler. I can’t just—”

  “Look at my face.” Eve jabbed spread fingers at her own eyes. “You’re now on leave. Get the hell out so I can work. One more word, just one, and I haul you out bodily.”

  Peabody pressed her lips together, then thumped a fist to her heart.

  “Yeah, yeah, get out. I’m busy.”

  Peabody rushed to the door and, figuring she could probably outrun Eve with the distance and the adrenaline, called out, “Thanks, boss!” Kept going.

  “You’re fucking welcome,” she muttered, kicking Rhoda’s desk before she could stop herself.

  She tagged Baxter first.

  “Just finishing up interview three on-site.”

  “When you wrap it come down to the manager’s office. Rhoda will show you.”

  “Ten tops,” he said, clicked off.

  She blew out a breath, tagged Roarke, got Caro.

  “Hello, Lieutenant.”

  “Caro, I’m sorry.”

  The stylish, ever-efficient Caro only smiled. “It’s no problem at all. He’s in a meeting. He should be out in a few minutes, but he said to put you through at any time if you needed to speak with him immediately.”

  “Not immediately. If you could tell him, when he’s free, Peabody’s schedule moved up. She had to leave. I’m at the apartment building. Banks. Things are moving. He can reach me when he has a chance.”

  “I’ll take care of it. We’re all pulling for Nadine.”

  “She’s lucky they’re not pulling her out of the East River. Thanks.”

  Taking a breath, rubbing her temples, she started outlining a takedown plan, grabbed her ’link again when it signaled incoming.

  The colonel had come through with her requested list of military personnel on base at the time of the attack.

  A lot of military personnel, she thought. But she could eliminate females, the dead, anyone on active duty. He’d be retired, she thought. Or discharged—honorably or not.

  Could be older than Iler, she considered, as the dominant partner. Or . . . Baby brother. The dominant still, she thought, but also a kind of surrogate.

  She looked at the little screen on her ’link, then with envy at the generously sized wall screen. And went out, once again, to Rhoda.

  By the time Baxter and Trueheart joined her, she had a pot of coffee, and a good chunk of her elimination done and displayed on the wall screen.

  “That’s real coffee,” Baxter said. “I can smell the real.”

  “Rhoda had a stash.”

  “You should marry her,” he told Trueheart as he poured out mugs.

  “I have a girl.”

  “Keep the girl, marry Rhoda. She has amazing powers.”

  “If we have that settled.” Eve kept working as she spoke. “We have the art and finance half of our suspects nailed down in Lucius Iler, apartment 5005.”

  “You got him. Hot damn!” Baxter lifted his mug in salute. “Is Peabody hauling him in?”

  “No, he’s in 5005. I’ve got uniforms in soft clothes watching the building, and Rhoda—of the amazing powers—in the lobby, should he decide to leave. Peabody’s on her fricking way to fricking Hollywood.”

  “She is?” Trueheart’s earnest face broke into smiles. “I thought it was tomorrow.”

  “It was. Now it’s not. Sit. Listen.”

  She caught them up quickly.

  “He’ll have contacted his partner,” Eve concluded. “No way to prevent that. The partner may rabbit, but I don’t think so. He’s a soldier.”

  “Leave no man behind.” Baxter nodded.

  “They’re brothers—as least in Iler’s mind. They go, they go together. The probability’s high the partner’s on the list on-screen—all of them were on base at the time of the terrorist attack. I’ve eliminated females, deceased, active duty. They’ve been at this for months, so it’s extremely unlikely the partner’s active duty. Trueheart, pick this up. Cross-check these names with the list of residents. If they both live here—”

  “We can wrap this up,” Baxter finished, “and go out for burgers and brew.”

  “If we have that kind of luck, I’ll buy both. I’ve got a consult with Mira in a few. Rhoda—and I concede her amazing powers—has it set up so we can do it on-screen here. That way I don’t have to relay to you afterward.”

  “Maybe I’ll marry her,” Baxter considered.

  “She’s too smart for that.”

  “I overcome female brains with my smooth charm and sexual prowess.”

  “He really does,” Trueheart agreed as he worked.

  “It’s a skill.”

  “Save it until we bust these bastards. Roarke’s on his way in.”

  “Peabody’s stand-in.”

  “While Trueheart’s doing the cross-check, give me what you got.”

  Baxter huffed out a breath. “Goose egg. Nobody we interviewed fits, nobody pops.”

  “If I’m not on the hook for burgers and brew, we’re back at that. But we focus on military history. The partner could have changed his name.”

  “If he lives here, or comes to see Iler frequently? Rhoda.”

  “And/or the night manager, the doorme
n. So you’re going to generate ID shots of the list currently on-screen.”

  She checked the time. “After the consult.”

  * * *

  With Mira on-screen Eve ran through the data, impressions, conclusions, while Mira sat at her desk at Central sipping tea.

  “The less physically adept older brother, proud and protective of his younger sibling,” Mira began. “Both of them often left in the care of staff while their parents traveled—with the father a dominant figure, one who controlled and demanded. The father did not, certainly in Iler’s mind, offer unrestricted, selfless love—and may, in fact, have been critical of, demeaning to, the more frail, unathletic older son. While the mother, in his view, cared less about tending and protecting her children than pleasing her husband, and perhaps herself.”

  “It’s envy? Targeting the family-focused parents?”

  “It’s certainly a motivator. The younger brother grows up, becomes the soldier, as expected. He forms new ties—new brothers, in a sense. He falls in love, another replacement. Iler, rather than building his own relationships, keeps his brother as the center. On a very real level, he sees himself not just as his brother’s keeper, but as his father figure. But he can no longer protect his brother, who dies a hero.”

  “As a soldier,” Eve put in. “Because the father demanded it.”

  “Yes. Iler can’t blame himself. He has no capacity for self-blame. The father should have protected the child, but caused his death instead, and lives on. The woman his brother loved, a link to his brother, moved on, chose another. Women are weak, calculating, without loyalty. He feels, as much as he’s capable of feeling, only for the child. His loyalty has transferred to his partner, his brother substitute.”

  “The partner, the dominant, feeds all of this.”

  “Unquestionably. Let the father prove he’d protect the child. The gamble for profit? It’s the risk that feeds both of them. Iler, physically frail as a child. I believe he would have worked hard to build himself up. He’d be a risk taker—physically—a gambler physically and financially. An addict to risk and reward.

  “The partner, a soldier,” Mira continued. “Trained to accept risk and violence, to lay down his life if needed. He survived the attack, but a man he admired—or at least respected—didn’t. You’re right, he could be younger. Still the dominant either way. But he would have been Terrance Iler’s subordinate. Not just Captain Iler, but his captain.”

  “Responsible for the lives of his men. Like a father’s responsible for the child.”

  “Yes. He likes violence, enjoys it. Another addiction.”

  As she wrapped it up, Roarke stepped in.

  “Thanks for the time.”

  “Keep me updated,” Mira told her. “When you have one or both of them in interview, I’ll observe.”

  “I will.” She ended the consult. “Trueheart.”

  “No matches, Lieutenant.”

  “There goes the brew and burgers,” Baxter lamented.

  “Generate the ID shots. Let’s take a walk,” she said to Roarke.

  She wanted some air, needed to move—and didn’t mind a bit if Iler happened to look out and see her on the street.

  “You’re banking rent from a sociopathic killer.”

  “Ah well,” Roarke responded. “It happens.”

  “Lucius Iler.”

  “Iler Antiquities?”

  “That’s the one. You know him?”

  “I don’t, no, but I’ve purchased a thing or two from the company over the years.”

  “Oldest son,” she began, and told him.

  She broke off long enough to contact Officer Carmichael, currently stationed in a fancy tea shop across the street.

  “He’s up there, sir. He came out a couple times on the terrace. Looked upset. He’s doing some day drinking. Last time he came out he had his ’link, talked a lot. Seemed to calm down some.”

  “Keep on it.”

  Roarke strolled back toward the building with her. “So, basically, Iler’s killed eighteen people, terrorized two families because his own parents didn’t give him enough hugs, his brother died saving others, the woman his brother hoped to marry didn’t grieve for the rest of her life.”

  “Add in an addiction to risk and gambling, greed, and a partner who strokes his twisted resentments, yeah. That’s about it.”

  The hem of Roarke’s coat snapped in the March wind; his hair streamed in it. “It’ll be a pleasure to watch you take them both down, and to play a part in it. Why is Peabody on her way to California today?”

  “Nadine. She got a spot on Angela Knight’s freaking Oscar week show out there, and had to bump everything up.”

  “Was this before or after you found Iler?”

  “After. I don’t want to talk about it,” Eve stated. “And don’t even think about kissing me when I’ve got two pair of cops’ eyes on this building.”

  “I doubt they can read my thoughts at this distance.”

  “Cops’ eyes,” she repeated, and stood for a moment longer in the noise and the wind.

  “What would you like me to do, as your Peabody?”

  “The first thing I’m going to say is I don’t know what you pay Rhoda, but she should get a big, fat bonus.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Depending on how things go, I need Baxter and Trueheart to get back to the interviews—focusing on military backgrounds, but not exclusively. He could be using fake ID and data. I’ll need to take some interviews to get it done. While I am, I need you to start full-spread runs on the names I’ve culled out from the terrorist attack.”

  “I can do that.”

  “He may or may not go by the same name now, but you should look for the shaky. Maybe a questionable psych eval, particularly after the attack. Medical discharges, dishonorables.”

  “Training in explosives?”

  “Possible. Just as possible he developed those skills and interest after the attack. If he was married—doubtful, but a maybe—he’s divorced. If he’s employed, it’s in security, or that’s my most probable. He could be a cop, goddamn it, but if he went there, he’s former because this takes too much time—plus, the second hit came too hard up on the first. Too much leave time for a cop unless he’s pulled a sick-out or hardship leave. Don’t discount the cop angle just because it pisses me off.”

  “I won’t. You’ve dismissed the tactic of taking Iler in, sweating it out of him?”

  “I still may. Let’s see what we get from the ID shots and the runs first.”

  She went back and found a silver-haired man on the desk.

  “Lieutenant, sir, Rhoda’s back in her office with your detectives. No one has come in to visit Mr. Iler.”

  “Good.”

  In the office Rhoda sat studying the screen while Baxter handled the programming, one ID shot at a time. She started to rise when Eve and Roarke came in, but Roarke gestured her down.

  “Take your time,” Baxter told her. “You see a lot of faces on any given day. Remember if anyone seems a little familiar, we’ll earmark it, come back to it.”

  “Not that one,” she said. Baxter moved to the next.

  “Visitors’ log?” Roarke asked.

  “I’m cross-checking on the portable.” Trueheart sat behind the desk. “Not just exact names, but any that use the same initials, same first or last.”

  “Keep at it,” Eve ordered, then turned to Rhoda. “He may have changed hair style, color. Grown a beard, shaved one off.”

  At the end of the first long round, Rhoda picked out five possibles.

  “I’m worried I’ve pulled those out because they remind me of someone else.”

  “Take a break,” Eve told her.

  “Oh, but I—”

  “You’ll come back to it fresher if you take a couple minutes. Baxter, dispense some of the smooth charm and coffee for Rhoda. Hold the sexual prowess.”

  “Sometimes it just ekes out. How do you take your coffee, Remarkable Rhoda?”
/>   “Black, thanks. When you have real, why add to it?”

  “My kind of woman. You aren’t married, are you?”

  “Not at the moment. You’re all trying to settle me down, and I appreciate it. Knowing I’ve had almost daily contact with one of the men who’s done all of this?” She accepted the coffee, drank. “It’s unnerving.”

  “Your nerves look steady to me.” Eve glanced at Roarke. He sat, working on his PPC. Already running the five possibles, she thought.

  He made an excellent Peabody.

  “Let me see them again. Not him,” Rhoda said as the first displayed. “I realize now he looks a little like—and this is embarrassing—Scott Trevor from Galaxy Force.”

  “You watch Galaxy Force?” Baxter shot a finger at Rhoda.

  “Addicted.”

  “We need to have drinks and talk. And you’re right. He could be Scott Trevor’s older cousin. How about this one?”

  She studied, closed her eyes, refocused. “Could we hold that one, come back to it? I’m just not sure.”

  “No problem.” Baxter switched to the next.

  “There’s just something . . .” She closed her eyes again, sat quietly, then opened. “Oh. Oh, I see. He’s shaved his hair. He’s shaved his head, and there’s something, else, something, I’m not—his nose. His nose is thinner now. Thin and straight—it looks as if it’s been broken and set poorly in this picture. He usually wears sunshades, even when he comes in after dark, almost always wears them. That’s Mr. Nordon. Oliver Nordon. He visits Mr. Iler, most often in the evening so I wouldn’t see him then, but I’ve seen his name on the log. And I’ve cleared him myself when he comes during the day. Mr. Nordon.”

  “Got it,” Trueheart said. “Got him. Sergeant Oliver Silverman, under Captain Iler in Seoul.”

  “Sergeant Oliver Silverman,” Roarke continued, “age thirty-two at the time of the attack. Wounded therein—broken leg, severe burns on torso, arms. Ah, shrapnel damaged his genitals, resulting in partial amputation and the fitting of a prosthetics.”

  “Youch,” Baxter mumbled.

  “Both medical and psychiatric evaluations determined Silverman should be honorably discharged.”

  “Something else there. If he’d wanted to stay in, they’d have found a place for him unless they deemed him unfit. Wounded warrior.”