by J. D. Robb
Roarke nodded at Eve. “I can look deeper.”
“Later. Do you have a current ID shot of Silverman?”
“Went off the grid after discharge.”
“A lot do, Lieutenant,” Trueheart said. “Plenty of sidewalk sleepers are vets.”
“Yeah. But that’s no sidewalk sleeper. Run Nordon,” she told Roarke.
“I am. Oliver Nordon, age thirty-six, freelance security consultant, residential and commercial.” He glanced at Eve. “Good call, Lieutenant.”
“Give me an address.”
“It’s 563 West Sixty-Third.”
“Baxter, warrants for Iler and Silverman/Nordon. Search and seizures on both locations. Use Reo, she’s fast. Trueheart, I want cops—team of four—sitting on Silverman’s address five minutes ago. In body armor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two more uniforms to this location,” she added. She snapped into the communicator already in her hand. “Feeney, eyes and ears, 563 West Sixty-Third. Apartment number?” she asked Roarke.
He didn’t look up from his PPC. “No. Townhome, three stories.”
“You catch that?”
“I ain’t deaf,” Feeney said.
“Suspect data coming to you . . .”
“Now,” Roarke finished.
“He’ll be armed, Feeney, and he’s fucking dangerous. Full body armor for your team. I’m tagging Salazar. He’ll have explosives.”
“I’ll tap her.”
“Warrants are in the works, uniforms en route to cover. Bomb sniffers, Feeney. Nobody takes the door until the sniffers clear it. And I want residences and businesses on both sides of the target location evacuated. Baxter, status!”
“Reo’s pushing it.”
She snatched the ’link from his hand. “Push faster, harder.” Tossed it back to him. “We’ll do the take down here then be at your location.”
She clicked off, narrowed her eyes at the image on-screen.
“Here’s how it’s going to go,” she said, then outlined the two-pronged op.
“She’s marvelous,” Rhoda murmured.
Roarke merely smiled. “Isn’t she?”
“Warrants coming through. Baxter, Trueheart, take your positions. Carmichael, Shelby, you copy?”
“Roger that.”
“Roarke, with me. You can take the block off the fiftieth floor, Rhoda,” Eve told her when they reached the elevators. “Just this car for now.”
“Good luck,” Rhoda called out as the doors shut.
“This one shouldn’t give us too much trouble. But, you never know.”
“It’s Silverman you’re worried about, and I agree. By the way, you weren’t wrong about Markin.”
“Markin? He’s in this?”
“Not this, no. It’s embezzlement he’s in—from his wife’s personal account, and her business. I poked around a bit since we started our day so early.”
“Huh.”
“She hasn’t noticed yet, but she will. Or her accountants will. I wonder if her parents might be a bit more understanding about her divorcing him under the circumstances.”
“It might be kind of fun to take him down myself instead of passing it along. Like a—that thing—palate cleanser.”
They walked down to Iler’s apartment. Eve buzzed.
No comp inquiry this time, she noted. He’d shut it down.
“Check it, open it,” Eve said.
Roarke took out a device, ran it over the door, the locks. “It’s clean. No explosives.”
In less time than it took to talk about it, he melted through the locks. They stepped in as Iler swung a leg over the terrace wall.
As Eve charged forward he grinned, then began a rapid descent on his climbing cable. He kept that grin aimed up at her, riding down with a large backpack, a second hefty bag strapped cross-body.
Dropped down to the sidewalk. Surrounded by cops.
“Another good call, Lieutenant.”
“He had to be ready to go. Once he told his partner how I pushed about the weekend even a pair of morons could figure out we’d linked Banks’s murder to the two explosions. And Iler had the crappiest of crap alibies for the time in question.”
She rolled her shoulders. “One down, one to go.”
21
Roarke drove so she could keep current with the team.
“Getting you eyes and ears now. Place looks locked down tight—privacy screens engaged,” Feeney told her. “And, lookee here, he thinks he’s going to block us out with some filters. Give him hell, Callendar.”
“Giving him all kinds, Cap. Burning through.”
“Sniffers?” Eve demanded.
“Starting to sniff now. Okay, through the filters, going eyes first. Got a basement level, starting there and working up. Callendar, make me proud. I’m going to talk to the sniffers.”
“Basement’s clear, Dallas. Going up. Hey, did you know McNab can do cartwheels?”
“What?”
“He did a triple heading out the door—first level, nobody there—for Hollywood. I scored it an eight-point-five out of ten because, a little wobbly on the third. Second floor, clear. Bunch of us are having a viewing party at the Blue Line on Sunday so—Target is clear. No heat source. No humans. No bad guys. Sorry.
“Not only that,” Feeney said as he climbed back in the EDD van, “he’s got the place wired.”
“Are you clear?” Eve demanded.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re clear. Salazar and her team are working on it. What’s your ETA?”
“That would be now,” she said, jumping out of the car as Roarke pulled behind the van.
The explosion had her cursing, surging forward toward Salazar’s barricade. Roarke yanked her back before she could plow through.
“What are you going to do?” He kept his hand clamped around her arm.
She yanked out her comm. “Salazar! What’s your status?”
“Five-by-five. Stay out,” she added. “We’ve shut down the booms on the doors, the windows. Checking for trip wires, flash bombs.”
“I’m coming in.”
“That’s a negative. This is my purview, Dallas. Don’t get in my way, don’t distract my team. We need to clear this location.”
“You’re right.” She walked back to the van. “What can you tell me?”
“Big boom, third floor. Nobody was up there,” Callendar added. “The team had entered, cleared first level and were up to two.”
So Eve waited, knowing Salazar’s kind of work couldn’t be rushed. She paced, ignoring the gawkers who never tired of gawking, the media hounds who’d scented a story.
“Baxter, go handle the media. Brush them back, but not too hard. We might need them if Silverman’s in the wind.”
Now she did push through as Salazar stepped out, giving the all clear.
“Fucker had the place wired, top to bottom, inside out and sideways. We got them all. The one that detonated was on a timer. Looks like he piled every electronic device in the place onto the third floor, set his charges. That’s where he had his workshop, so a lot of that’s gone. He built the vests up there.”
Despite the wind, Salazar, baking in her protective suit, swiped at sweat. “Looks to me like he cleared out all the way—empty safe, not a stray sock left in the bedroom closet. I’m going to say he took some toys with him. We’ll go through what’s left.”
“Thanks. Feeney, take a look at what he blew up, see if you can salvage anything.”
“That’ll be a trick,” Salazar commented. “The wreckage is on the second floor now seeing as the boom blew a hole in the floor of the third.”
Eve stepped into a white-walled, narrow foyer. “Find out who owns the property,” she told Roarke.
“Iler bought it about a year ago. I already checked,” he said when she gave him a glance. “He’s claimed a loss on his taxes for maintenance and repair, with a rental income of two hundred a month. That’s so far below market for this sort of property in this neighborhood to be laughab
le.”
She moved into the living area. “So he bought the place so Silverman would have a place to stay, charged a minimal rent so the tax guys wouldn’t poke in too deep.”
“Precisely.”
She studied the space—the same white walls, unadorned. Floors that could have used some work, riot bars on the windows.
“He didn’t spend much time down here,” she noted. “Two ratty chairs, an old table, no screen, no stuff, but a lot of dust.
She continued through—empty dining area, empty sitting area, a kitchen and powder room that showed no signs of regular use.
Still, she’d send the sweepers through every inch.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. The ceiling of a bedroom gaped open, a hole with about a six-foot diameter. Fire suppressant dripped from the edges. The charred rubble, stinking of smoke and fried wiring, lay in piles on the floor.
Feeney in his shit-brown coat, Callendar in her boldly striped one stood in identical poses—hands on hips—and frowned.
“Got our work cut out for us, Cap.”
“We get anything out of this shit pile, we’ll be miracle workers.”
As Eve watched, they looked over at each other, grinned.
“Does that mean you’re going to work miracles?” Eve asked.
“It ain’t going to be easy, and it ain’t going to be quick. But you never know till you know. You feeling lucky, Callendar?”
“I’m an e-dick, Captain. I wake up feeling lucky every freaking morning.”
“Use your lucky feet to walk down to the van, get our toys and tools. We’ll scan this shit pile in place before we call in some boys to haul it to the lab.”
He looked back at Eve when Callendar bounced out. “Not quick,” he repeated. “Not easy. It’s fried, blown to hell and got suppressant clogging over that. Could use you,” he said to Roarke.
“Right now he’s Peabody.” Eve looked down at the shit pile, shook her head. “Do what you can.”
Of the remaining two bedrooms, only the master had furnishings.
“The sergeant kept things squared away in his personal space,” she noted as she walked through with Roarke. “Bed’s made—military precision there.” She drew out the drawer of the single nightstand. “If he kept anything in here, he took it.”
She opened the footlocker he’d used in lieu of a dresser. “Same here.”
“Bathroom’s scrubbed to a gleam,” Roarke told her. “Some cleaning supplies in the vanity, a couple of towels, bar soap in the shower, and nothing else.”
“I’d say he kept a kit for toiletries, shaving, that kind of thing. Salazar’s not wrong about the closet,” she said as Roarke joined her. “Bet your fine ass he had a go-bag, so he grabbed it, whatever else he wanted, cleared out the safe. Smart, smart not to leave so much as a stray sock behind. But we’ll find prints, hair. He didn’t have time to wipe the place down.”
“Going by the furnishings, or lack thereof, he likely had few possessions.”
“Sleep, shower, dress.” Eve circled the room. “Plot, plan, be ready to bug out. What kind of towels?”
Roarke smiled at her. “Organic cotton.”
“Bed linens, too. So he learned to appreciate the finer things.”
She walked out, and up.
Smoke and fire suppressant still stung the air on the third level. She could look through the hole in the floor to where Feeney circled the pile of rubble as he waited for Callendar. Black streaked the white walls, and flying shrapnel had punched some holes in them.
“This is his lair, this is where he lived.” She stepped up to the remnants of a workbench, crouched. “A solid one, a damn good one. Like organic cotton. Couldn’t take this—or those vices that blew off and into walls. Got most of the tools and supplies though. Some still here—that’s for Salazar.”
“He built his bombs here,” Roarke agreed. “And lived with them. The big wall screen, the good leather sofa and chair—or what’s left of them now. That was once a high-end AC and friggie.”
He picked up a bottle—cracked, but not shattered. “Twenty-year scotch. Unblended. That’s a finer thing.”
“I leave Iler shaking—on purpose. He contacts Silverman, panicked. Silverman calms him down. Here’s what we do. Has Iler give him enough time to pack up, to set explosives and clear out. Iler packs up, too. Neither one of them’s smart enough to understand I’d have Iler under surveillance, but smart enough they don’t want anybody to know he’s running. They need some time, so he’s going to be real clever and belay his way down to the street.”
“Which is a git move on the face of it in any case.”
“Oh yeah, but he is a git, and Silverman’s not much smarter. Smart would’ve been for Iler to wait a few more hours. Wait until say two in the morning, then drop his ass down to the street where Silverman’s waiting for him in the black panel van.”
“You’ve booked a private shuttle,” Roarke continued. “You get out, get gone, taking your profits to somewhere without extradition—which you should have arranged at the very start of the whole business.”
“Not smart, but there are eighteen dead, and I’ve still only got one of them.” She stepped back up to the hole in the floor. “Feeney!”
“Yo!”
“I’m heading back to Iler’s. He didn’t blow up his equipment, and he’s no pro. He might have left a trail.”
“We’re going to scan this shit pile. I’ve got boys coming in for it. We’ll be right behind you when we’re done with this.”
“Good enough.” Eve straightened, looking around once more. “We need that trail,” she said to Roarke. “Because what I don’t see in here, or anywhere where Silverman worked and lived, is any remnants of a suicide vest. He’d have had another one in the works, or ready to go. He took it with him.”
“He’s lost his partner,” Roarke pointed out.
“It won’t stop him. And without Iler, there’s nothing to stop him from killing the wife and kid of the next target.” She dragged her hands through her hair.
“He wired the place, hoped to blow some of us up. Failed. Blew up his data, but we may get something out of it. Eventually. He must’ve had a meet spot with Iler. A time and place, but Iler didn’t show. He has to know we have Iler.”
“More inclined to run then.”
“No, no, no. More inclined to finish. He’s volatile. Why the fucking hell take time to blow up the whole damn house? He didn’t use ninety percent of it, but Salazar said it was wired top to bottom. He only needed to blow his data, his records.”
“Well, he’s a madman.”
“He’s a madman, and the brother of his brother’s in a cage. That may mean the access to at least some of the money’s compromised. The money, that’s Iler’s area. Iler had the painting on him when we took him, half a million in cash, and the codes and IDs for three accounts.
“He’s got to finish it, do the next at least the next. Cash in, cash out. Look, we’ve got to split this after all. I need you to go to Iler’s, see what you can do to find that trail. I wanted to let him sweat a few more hours, but I have to start working him. I need to get him in the box.”
“All right. I’ll grab a ride with Feeney.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep in touch.”
As she jogged downstairs, her ’link signaled a text.
Peabody, she noted, and scanned it on the move.
We’re here, and it’s already mag to the ex. But we want to know, just have to know—Did you get them?
Eve answered fast and brief. Iler’s in a cage, about to go in the box. ID’d the partner, working on bagging him. Too busy for details.
Peabody’s response came in seconds. You’ll break Iler like a twig. Let me know when number two’s in the bag.
Eve shoved her ’link in her pocket, and prepared to break Iler like a twig.
* * *
He’d lawyered up, but she’d expected it. She knew Richard Singa, the high-dollar criminal attorney, had faced off wi
th him before.
Iler sat silent and smug—from the smirk—when she came into Interview with Baxter.
“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Baxter, Detective David, entering interview with Iler, Lucius, and his legal counsel on the matter of case files H-32019, H-32024, H-32029, and related matters.”
She sat, folded her hands on those case files. “Mr. Iler, have you been read your rights?”
Singa lifted a finger. “We acknowledge my client was properly Mirandized.”
“Mr. Iler, you’ve been charged with conspiracy to murder, first-degree, eighteen counts, possession of and intent to use explosive devices to cause physical harm, enforced imprisonment, six counts, accessory to assault, four counts, endangering a minor, two counts, and various charges of fraud, tax evasion, breaking and entering—”
“Lieutenant.” Now Singa lifted both hands, peered at her with dark eyes over a broad nose. “Obviously my client not only disputes all charges, but was, as we all know, nowhere near the scene of the tragedies at Quantum headquarters or the Salon gallery. And as the security in your own husband’s apartment building must clearly show, he did not leave his own residence on the night of Jordan Banks’s murder. Therefore, I must insist we dispense with this absurdity.”
“Has your client informed you by which method he attempted to elude arrest?”
Singa’s gaze remained direct and dispassionate. “While my client’s practice of climbing and belaying was unwise in that particular location, you have no evidence this was an attempt to elude. Mr. Iler had no reason to expect arrest as he’s committed no crime.”
“He had the artwork he stole from Banks’s apartment in his possession.”
“My client maintains he purchased the artwork from Mr. Banks.”
“So he’ll provide a receipt for the purchase?”
“A cash deal,” Singa said smoothly, “between friends.”
“And when was this cash deal between friends made?”
“Several weeks ago.”
“That’s bullshit. I personally saw said artwork on Banks’s wall on the evening before his murder.”
Singa hesitated—the faintest flicker across his eyes. “Are you an expert in figure studies, Lieutenant? In Angelo Richie’s work? Otherwise, it’s easy to mistake one for another.”
