Dead philandering husband and mistress, she thought. Both connected to the art world. Possible connection to techno-terrorists. Super computer worm. Security compromised in several areas. Preplanned frame on security expert in charge of developing extermination program and shield.
What was the point of the frame? Somebody else would step up to the plate. No one was indispensable.
She worried it, juggled it, twisted it around, and didn't like any of the patterns that formed. Why was something so neat and slick so sloppy once you chipped off the shine?
Even if the case was treated as a straight crime of passion, even if Reva Ewing was charged, tried, convicted, and spent the rest of her life in a cage, what did it accomplish?
She was on her second cup of coffee and another mental run-through when Roarke walked into the bedroom.
"Somebody want you to take a major hit bad enough to kill two people and frame an employee?" she asked.
"There are all kinds of people in the world."
"Yeah, that's what's wrong with the world. There are people in it. But there are easier ways to screw with you than double murder. I don't think you're it."
"Darling, I'm shattered. I was so sure I was it for you."
"But you could be it, on some level. Roarke Industries could, or more specifically Securecomp. We'll have to play with that some. But first I want a closer look at the victims."
"I started the runs for you. I was up," he said when she frowned at him. "Now that we both are, I'm thinking seriously about food."
"You'll have to have it in my office."
"Naturally."
"You're pretty agreeable."
"No, actually, just hungry."
Because he was, he ordered up steaks in her office. "You can have a look at the life and times of Blair Bissel while you eat. Computer, data on screen one."
"Any sealeds?"
"No. At least none that show."
"What do you mean, none that show?"
"Just that it's all very, very tidy. See for yourself."
She cut into her steak as she read the data on screen.
Bissel, Blair. Caucasian. Height: six feet, one inch. Weight: one hundred and ninety-six pounds. Hair: brown. Eyes: green. DOB... March 3, 2023, Cleveland, Ohio. Parents: Marcus Bissel and Rita Hass, divorced 2030. One brother, Carter. DOB: December 12, 2025.
Occupation: sculptor.
Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York.
"Serenity Lane." Eve shook her head as she chewed. "What twink comes up with that stuff?"
"I imagine you'd prefer Kick-Ass Drive."
"Who wouldn't?"
Because he'd gone deep, she was treated to educational history from Bissel's formal play group at age three right through his two years abroad at an art school in Paris.
She read through his medical-the broken tibia at age twelve, the standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and so on. He'd had some face and body work-ass, chin, nose.
He'd been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one million, eight hundred thousand and some change.
There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile.
He'd paid his taxes in a timely fashion, lived well, but within his means.
Reva was his only marriage.
His parents were still living. His father remained in Cleveland with wife number two, and his mother in Boca Raton with husband number three. His brother-no marriage on record, no children registered-had entrepreneur listed as profession, a sure tip-off to the less polite: no gainful employment. His work history was varied as he'd moved from job to job and place to place. He was currently listed as residing in Jamaica, as part owner of a tiki bar.
His criminal record was equally varied. Petty ante stuff, Eve noted. A little graft, a bit of grift, a touch of larceny. He'd served eighteen months in an Ohio state pen for his part in selling seniors nonexistent time-shares.
His gross worth was just over twelve thousand, which included his part in the tiki bar.
"I wonder if the younger brother has some issues with the fact big brother got the bucks and the glory. No violent crimes on record, but it's different with family. People get worked up when it's family. Add money and it gets messy."
"So little brother comes up from Jamaica, kills big brother and frames sister-in-law."
"Reaching," she admitted with a purse of her lips, "but not that far if you speculate Carter Bissel knew about the project. Maybe he was approached, offered money for any information he could get. Maybe he gets some, maybe he doesn't. But he's slick enough to figure out his brother's diddling on the side. Maybe a spot of blackmail, family fight. Threats." She shrugged.
"Yes, I see the picture." While he ate, Roarke turned it over in his mind. "He may have been a conduit. A liaison. Sibling rivalry turns deadly, and he and whoever recruited him decided to eliminate the loose ends."
"Makes the most sense so far. We'll want to chat with little bro Carter."
"That's handy as we don't spend nearly enough time in tiki bars."
Since it was there, she picked up the glass of cabernet and sipped while she studied her husband's face. "You're thinking something else."
"No, just thinking. Have a look at Felicity Kade. Kade data, on screen two."
She got the picture quickly enough of the only child of well-to-do parents. Extensive education, extensive travel. Homes in New York City, the Hamptons, and Tuscany. A socialite who earned some pin money as an art broker. Not that she needed extra to buy her pins, Eve thought, with a net worth-mostly inherited and through trust funds-of five million plus.
Never married, though there was one brief cohabitation on record in her twenties. At thirty, she lived alone, lived well-or had.
She'd had considerable body work, but had apparently been happy enough with her face. There was no unusual or unexpected medical data, and no criminal. No sealeds.
"Spends a lot," Eve commented. "Clothes, salons, jewelry, art, travel. Lots of travel. And isn't it interesting that she's been to Jamaica four times in the last eighteen months."
"Yes, it's very interesting."
"Could be she was cheating on the cheating husband with the cheating husband's feckless brother."
"Keep it in the family."
"Or maybe she did the recruiting, looking for a fall guy should the situation call for one."
He speared an artichoke heart. "It's Reva who's taking the fall."
"Yeah. Just let me play with it." She picked up her wine again, sipping at it as she rose to pace. "First trip a year and a half ago. Feels him out, maybe. Could use him to double-team Reva or Blair. Or both. She likes money. She likes risks. You don't sleep with your friend's husband if you don't like risk, or if you have a conscience. Playing with global techno-terrorists might appeal to her. She likes travel, and with all the people she meets-through traveling, through her social position, through the art world... yeah, she could've been approached."
"So, how did she end up dead?"
"I'm getting there. Maybe little brother was jealous. That's a time-honored motive for hacking your lover to bits."
"Or learning how to rumba."
"Har-har. Maybe he wanted a bigger cut, or maybe she double-crossed him. And maybe this is all bullshit, but it's something to explore."
She gestured with the glass toward the wall screen. "I'll tell you something else I think. They're just too damn clean."
"Ah. I was hoping you'd feel that way." He leaned back in the chair with his wine. "Just so very smooth aren't they, our Mr. Bissel and Ms. Kade. Just so completely what one would expect. Educated, law-abiding, financially cozy. Not the least little smudge. It all fits so exactly-"
"That it doesn't fit at all. They're liars and cheats, and liars and cheats generally have a smudge or two."
He sipped, smiling at her over the rich red in a crystal glass. "Enough skill, enough money, all matter of smudges can be erased."
"You'd know.
We're going to take this deeper, because I'm just not buying. Meanwhile, I want to see Reva."
"Screen three."
The data flashed on, and the 'link from Roarke's adjoining office beeped.
"I need to take that."
She nodded absently, and read as he went into his own office.
Ewing, Reva. Caucasian. Hair: brown. Eyes: gray. Height: five feet, four inches. Weight: one hundred and eighteen pounds. DOB: May 15, 2027. Parents: Bryce Gruber and Caroline Ewing, divorced 2040. Resides: 21981 Serenity Lane, Queens, New York. Occupation: electronic security expert. Employed: Securecomp, Roarke Industries. Married: October 12, 2057, Blair Bissel. No children registered.
Education: Kennedy Primary, New York. Lincoln High School-fast track-New York. Georgetown University, East Washington, with degrees in computer science, electronic criminology, and law.
Joined Secret Service, January 2051. Assigned to President Anne B. Foster, 2053-55. Complete service record in attached file, including sealed records, opened by authorization of Ewing, Reva.
Good as her word, then, Eve decided, and opted to read the service record later.
Resigned from Secret Service, January 2056. Relocated to New York City. Employed Securecomp, Roarke Industries, January 2056 to present.
No criminal record. Misdemeanor truancy charge, misdemeanor underage alcohol consumption charge, both expunged from juvenile record in compliance with court order. Community service completed.
The medical included a broken index finger at age eight, a hairline fracture of the left ankle at age twelve, broken collarbone, thirteen. Doctor's and social worker's reports ascertained that the injuries, and the numerous subsequent injuries, were the result of various sports and recreational activities that included ice hockey, softball, martial arts training, parasailing, basketball, and skiing.
But the most serious injury had come as an adult, and on the job. Reva had done what every SS agent vows to do. She'd taken a hit for the President.
A full-body blast that had lain her up for three months, and had required treatment in one of the top clinics in the world. She'd been paralyzed from the waist down for six weeks.
Remembering how hideous it had been when McNab had taken a similar hit earlier that summer, and how slim his chances had been if the nerves hadn't regenerated on their own, she had a good idea of the pain, the fear, and the work Reva had gone through to recover.
She remembered the assassination attempt as well. The suicidal fanatic who'd charged at the President, and had taken out three civilians and two agents before he'd been stopped. She now recalled seeing Reva's image on the media. But she'd looked very different then.
Longer hair, Eve recalled. Dark blonde, with a fuller, softer face.
Eve glanced over her shoulder as Roarke came back. "I remember her now. Remember hearing about her when she took that hit. Lots of buzz. She took the guy out, didn't she? Took him down while she used herself to shield Foster."
"They didn't think she'd live. Then they didn't think she'd walk again. She proved them wrong."
"You didn't hear much about her after the first few days."
"That's the way she wanted it." He glanced over at the image of Reva, still on screen. "She didn't like the attention. She'll get it again now. They'll make the connection quickly, and the buzz will start again. Heroic woman charged in double murder and so on."
"She'll deal."
"She will, yes. She'll bury herself in work, like someone else I know."
"How far will this set back the project?"
"Half a day. That was Tokimoto. Reva's already briefed him, though she plans to be back at it herself as soon as she's done with Truth Testing. If two people are dead for the purposes of scrapping this project, it was severely misdirected."
"You'd think anybody smart enough to pull this off would be smart enough to know that. Desperation move?" she speculated. "Trouble in the rank and file? Carter Bissel. I really want to talk to Carter Bissel."
"Are we going to Jamaica?"
"Don't grab your beach towel yet. I'll start by chatting up the local authorities. I've got to write my report, shoot a copy to Whitney. And I've got to follow through with the standard investigative routine. Check with the ME, the lab, the sweepers, EDD. Media's going to start jumping by morning. You're probably going to want to formulate an official statement as her employer."
"I'm already working on that."
"I want her under wraps, Roarke. No statements from her, so if she goes back to work, I need her tucked up tight."
"I can promise you, she knows how to stonewall the media."
"Just make sure of it. If you don't have something else going, you could start digging deeper on Bissel and Kade."
"I've cleared the table for this." He picked up his wineglass again. "I'll get my shovel."
"You're okay, you know." She stepped to him, gave him a light bite on the bottom lip. "For a slick-talking, sticky-fingered civilian."
"You're okay yourself. For a mean-tempered, single-minded cop."
"Aren't we the pair? Give a yell if you find something interesting."
She sat at her desk to sort through her notes, the statements, preliminary findings. Then began to write up a report for her files, and her commander's.
Halfway through, she pulled out the crime scene stills and studied them yet again. Had they been conscious when the stabbing started?
Unlikely, she thought, given the time frame. Whoever killed them had wanted them dead and hadn't cared about causing pain. That left out rage, in her opinion. It had been too cold-blooded, too premeditated for rage.
It was meant to look like rage.
Front door was open. She frowned as she rechecked her notes. Caro's statement asserted the front door was open when she arrived. Yet in Reva's, she stated she'd reset the locks and the security. And Eve was inclined to believe she had. It would be habit, routine, training, the sort of thing she'd do automatically even when in a temper.
Whoever had killed them, and incapacitated Reva, had gone back out the front door, leaving the locks open. Why not? What would it matter?
In fact...
She got up, went to the doorway. "Fancy security system like Kade's..." she began, "... if it's shut down, and an egress is left open, how long before the company'd do a routine check of the premises?"
"That would depend on the client's request. It's individualized." He glanced up from his own work. "You're wanting me to check."
"You could get the answer faster, seeing as you own the world."
"I only own specific parts of the world. Open Securecomp," he ordered his computer. "Authorization Roarke."
Working... Securecomp open on Authorization Roarke.
"Access client file for Kade, Felicity, residential account, NYC."
Working... Kade, Felicity, accessed. Do you want the data on screen or on audio?
"On screen. Detail client's profile for house security."
Profile displayed.
"Let's see, then... sixty minutes on the street-level doors and windows. The instructions are to monitor for motion, and to relay any questions to her house droid after a sixty-minute period."
"Is that standard?"
"It's rather long, actually. I'd have to assume she trusted the system, and didn't care to be disturbed should there be a glitch."
"Sixty minutes. Okay. Okay, thanks." She wandered back, running it around her head.
Had they figured Reva would be out at least an hour, or if not out, disoriented? Security company activates house droid, house droid reports security has been compromised, and the company automatically reports same to the police and sends over a team.
But Reva's a tough customer. She surfaces quicker, and even though she's sick, scared, confused, she makes a call. So that part of the plan-if it was part of the plan-didn't work, because Caro, rushing the few blocks with a coat thrown over her pajamas, closed the door before the sixty was up.
She added the detail to her rep
ort.
What was left on scene?
The kitchen knife from the Bissel-Ewing house. How long had it been missing? Unlikely they'd be able to determine.
Military-issue stunner. Used by military personnel, Special Forces, certain city crisis-response teams. Who else?
"Computer, what weaponry is issued to United States Secret Service agents, specifically those on presidential detail.
J D Robb - Dallas 19 - Divided In Death Page 10
