The In Death Collection 06-10

by J. D. Robb

  “She covered her ass. If she decided not to run straight off, she’d have the disc, dated and logged, as verification of the story. I guess she figured Testing was too big a risk.”

  “Doesn’t help us any. Everything here’s just as you’d expect it to be if her story was on the up.”

  “But it’s not, so there’s more. This is a front.” Eve closed the window, turned to wander the room. “This is image—what do you call it—veneer. Under this we’ve got a tough, determined, bloodthirsty woman who wants to be treated like a goddess. With awe and fear. She’s not pink.” Eve lifted a satin pillow, tossed it. “She’s red; rich, powerful red. She’s no delicate flower. She’s poison—exotic, sensual, but poison. She wouldn’t have spent any more time in this room than it would have taken to set it up.”

  Eve stopped, waiting for her racing mind to slow. Damn chemicals, she thought. She deliberately closed her eyes. “She’d come in here, probably sneer at all the little trinkets. False front. Society’s trappings. She hates it. Uses it. She goes for the bold, but this is part of the stage. She’s been acting for years. This room is to show people how soft and female she is, but it isn’t where she works.”

  “The rest of the house is guest rooms, baths, living and kitchen area.” Peabody sat where she was, watching Eve, watching her work. Watching her mind. “If she didn’t work here, then where?”

  “Close.” Eve opened her eyes, studied the little closet. “Master bedroom’s on the other side of that wall, right?”

  “Yeah. Big he and she walk-in closet takes up the facing wall.”

  “All the closets are big. Except this one. Why would she settle for this little corner here?” She squeezed herself in, started running fingers over the wall. “Go around the other side, into the closet. Knock on the wall. Give it three good raps, and come back.”

  While she waited, Eve crouched, dug her minigoggles out of her field kit.

  “Why did I do that?” Peabody asked when she came back.

  “You knock hard?”

  “Yes, sir. Rap, rap, rap. Stung my knuckles.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing. There’s got to be a mechanism, a control.”

  “Hidden room?” Peabody tried to angle it. “That’s so iced.”

  “Back up, you’re in my light. It’s got to be here. Wait. Hell. Give me something to pry with.”

  “I’ve got something.” Peabody dug in her bag for her Swiss Army knife, selected the slim opener, and offered it.

  “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  “All the way to Eagle level, sir.”

  Eve grunted, slid the opener into the minute crack in the glossy ivory wall. It slipped out twice before she got some leverage, and hissing out an oath, she shoved it hard. The little door swung open to reveal a control panel.

  “Okay, let’s bypass this sucker.” She worked for five cramped minutes, shifted her weight on her knees, wiped sweat off her face, and started again.

  “Why don’t you let me have a go at it, Dallas?”

  “You don’t know any more about electronics than I do. Hell with it. Step back.” She rose, her shoulder bumping solidly into Peabody’s nose. Peabody had a minute to yelp, check for blood, then Eve had her weapon out.

  “Oh, sir, you don’t need to—”

  Eve blasted the control lock. Circuits sizzled, chips flew, and the panel of ivory slid smoothly apart.

  “What’s that fairy tale code? Open sesame.” Eve stepped inside a small, pie-slice room, eyed the sleek control panel, the snazzy equipment that reminded her, a bit uncomfortably, of what Roarke had behind a locked door. “This,” Eve said, “is where Cassandra worked.”

  She ran her fingers over controls, tried manual and verbal commands. The machines stayed silent.

  “They’ll be passcoded,” she murmured, “and unregistered, and likely have a couple of traps laid in.”

  “Should I send for Captain Feeney?”

  “No.” Eve rubbed her cheek. “I’ve got an expert only minutes from this location.” She dug out her ’link and called Roarke.

  He took one look at the fried control panel and shook his head. “You’d only to call.”

  “I got in, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but there’s something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant.”

  “There’s something to be said for speed. I don’t mean to rush you—”

  “Then don’t.” He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. “Set up your night flash until I can get the room controls working.”

  He took a slim penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his teeth in a technique favored by burglars.

  Eve saw Peabody’s eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them. “Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We’ll send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert.”

  “Yes, sir.” But she craned her neck to see over Eve’s shoulder. Roarke had removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous definition in his arms. “Are you sure you don’t want me to assist here?”

  “Beat it.” Eve bent to dig a light out of her field kit. “I still see your shoes,” she said mildly. “Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders.”

  Her shoes pivoted smartly and marched away.

  “Do you have to look so sexy when you do that?” Eve demanded. “You distract my aide.”

  “Just one of life’s little hurdles. Ah, I won’t need that flash after all. Lights,” he ordered and the room brightened.

  “Good. See if you can find the controls that open this paper file over here.” She turned to a cabinet. “I’d blast it, but I might damage the data inside.”

  “Try a little patience. I’ll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my units. Locks, yes, here we are.” He keystroked and Eve heard the click.

  “That was easy.”

  “The rest won’t be. Give me some quiet here.”

  She pulled out a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn’t say, but it was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.

  Then she started going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.

  There were letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter—the daughter he didn’t call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.

  They weren’t the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.

  “The war must be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is too much his mother’s son. You are mine.

  “Remember always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history.”

  There were others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He’d molded her, one god to another, in his image.

  In another file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa’s and her brother’s, and their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings, stories on Apollo, and on her father.

  There were photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.

  She’d looked into them hundreds of times in her life.

  Family pictures, again private, of James Rowan and h
is daughter. The fairylike little girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was fierce, and her eyes were her father’s.

  She found all the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.

  Another picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain’s hat shading his eyes. Behind them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.

  She’d seen that face before, she thought and dug out her magnifying goggles again to get a better look.

  “Henson,” she murmured. “William Jenkins.” She pulled out her palm unit and requested data to refresh her memory.

  William Jenkins Henson, date of birth August 12, 1998, Billings, Montana. Married Jessica Deals, one child. Daughter Madia, born August 9, 2018. James Rowan’s campaign manager . . .

  “Right. Stop.” She rose, took a turn around the room. She remembered, she’d scanned the data before. He’d had a daughter Clarissa’s age. A daughter who hadn’t been accounted for, hadn’t been mentioned since the bombing in Boston.

  A female child’s body had been identified in the ruin of that Boston home. Henson’s daughter, Eve thought. Not Rowan’s. And Willian Jenkins Henson had taken Rowan’s child as his own.

  He’d finished her training.

  She sat again, began to push through the papers looking for another letter, another photo, another piece. She found another stack from Rowan to his daughter and began to read.

  “Eve, I’m in. You’ll want to see this.”

  Taking the letters with her, she went to Roarke. “He’d been training her since she was a kid,” Eve told him. “Brought her up through the ranks. He called her Cassandra. And when he died, Henson took over. I’ve got a photo of her and Henson taken a good ten years after the bombing in Boston.”

  “They trained her well.” Damned if he hadn’t admired her skill with the units and the codes and mazes she’d planted within them. “I have transmissions from here to a location in Montana. It may be to Henson. No names are used, but she’s kept him up to date on her progress.”

  Eve glanced down at the monitor. “Dear Comrade,” she read.

  “I don’t understand politics,” she said after she’d read the first transmission. “What are they trying to prove? What are they trying to be?”

  “Communism, Marxism, Socialism, Fascism.” Roarke jerked his shoulders. “Democracy, republic, monarchy. One is the same as the other to them. It’s power, it’s glory. It’s revolution for the sake of it. Politics, religion, for some it remains their own narrow and personal view.”

  “Conquer and rule?” Eve wondered.

  “To feed. Have a look. On-screen,” Roarke ordered, and the wall unit flashed on. “We have schematics and blueprints, security codes and data. These are the Apollo targets, starting with the Kennedy Center.”

  “They kept records,” she murmured. “Property damage and cost, number of dead. Jesus, they list the names.”

  “War records,” Roarke said. “So many for them, so many for us. Tally the count. Without blood, war’s losing its sexuality. And here . . . secondary data, split . . . screen. This is the data and images of Radio City. Note the red dots indicate the positioning of the explosives.”

  “Following in daddy’s footsteps.”

  “I have names and locations for members of the group.”

  “Feed them to my home unit, to Peabody. We’ll start rounding up. Are all the targets listed?”

  “I haven’t gone past the first two. I thought you’d want to see what we’ve got so far.”

  “Right. Get the data to Peabody first, then we’ll go on.” She glanced down at the letter in her hand as he started the transmission. And her blood froze.

  “Jesus, the Pentagon wasn’t the next target. They had an abort between the arena and the Pentagon. It doesn’t say what it is here, just equipment problems, financial difficulties. ‘Money is a necessary evil. Line your coffers well.” ’ She tossed the letter aside. “What’s after the arena? What was next on Apollo’s list?”

  Roarke called it up and they both stared at the white spear on-screen. “The Washington Monument, targeted for two days after the complex.”

  She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. “They’ll move tonight, tomorrow the latest. They won’t wait, they won’t contact. They can’t risk it. What’s the target?”

  He called it up. Three images popped. “Take your choice.”

  Eve yanked out her communicator. “Peabody, get an E and B team to the Empire State Building, another to the Twin Towers, one more to the Statue of Liberty. You and McNab cover the Empire State, get Feeney down to the Towers. Have one of the long-range scanners ready for me. I’m on my way home. I want everybody to move, move fast. Riot gear and armed. Evacuation immediately, cordon off entire sectors. No civilians within three city blocks of locations.”

  She jammed the communicator into her pocket. “How fast can that jet-copter of yours get us to Liberty Island?”

  “A lot faster than those toys your department uses.”

  “Then shoot this data off, add your copter’s computer to the spread. Let’s go fire it up.”

  She raced through the door, out and down the steps. Roarke was behind the wheel of his car and had the engine engaged before she could slam her door.

  “The Statue’s your target.”

  “I know it. They’ll go for the symbol. The biggest one we’ve got. She’s female, she’s political.” He took the blocks home at a speed that had Eve pressed against the seat. “And I’m damned if they’re going to take her down.”

  chapter twenty-two

  “Lieutenant! Dallas! Sir!” Peabody scrambled out the front door as Eve leaped out of the car.

  “Go,” Eve told Roarke. “I’m right behind you.”

  “Your data’s still coming in.” Peabody slid over the frost on the lawn, grabbed her footing. “I relayed to Central. Units are being mobilized.”

  Eve took the scanner. “Full protective gear. You scan before you go in. I’m not losing anyone else.”

  “Yes, sir. The commander wants your destination and ETA.”

  Eve whirled around as the silky drone of the jet-copter blurred the air. She watched it sweep out of the mini-hangar, purr. “God help me, I’m going up in that. Liberty Island. You’ll know my ETA when I do.”

  She crouched to avoid the blast of air, tossed the scanner to Roarke, then hooked a hand on the door opening, propped a boot on the runner. She gave Roarke a brief glance. “I hate this part.”

  He grinned at her. “Strap in, Lieutenant,” he advised as she boosted herself through the door. “Secure the door. This won’t take long.”

  “I know.” She hooked the strap across her body, braced. “That’s the part I hate.”

  He went into a steep vertical lift that had her stomach flopping as she contacted Whitney. “Sir. En route to Liberty Island. Data should be coming through to you now.”

  “It is. Mobilizing backup and E and B teams to each location. ETA to Liberty Island, twelve minutes. Give me yours.”

  “What’s our ETA, Roarke?”

  They rose over trees, buildings, engine purring. He sent her one quick look out of wickedly blue eyes. “Three minutes.”

  “But that’s—” She managed not to scream when he punched in the jets. The purr turned to a panther roar and the copter ripped through the sky like a pebble shot from a sling. Eve gripped the seat with white-knuckled hands and thought, Shit, shit, shit. But her voice was relatively controlled. “We’ll be there inside of three minutes, Commander.”

  “Report in on arrival.”

  She clicked off and struggled to breathe steadily through her teeth. “I want to get there alive.”

  “Trust me, darling.”

  He banked over the city, adjusted course, and the copter tilted dramatically. Eve felt her eyes roll back in her head. “We’ll need to scan the site.” She picked up the instrument, studied it. “
I’ve never used one of these.”

  Roarke reached over, flipped a switch on the base of the scanner. It let out a mild hum.

  “Jesus Christ! Keep your hands on the controls!” she shouted at him.

  “If I ever want to blackmail you, I can threaten to tell your associates of your phobia of heights and high rates of speed.”

  “Remind me to hurt you if we live.” She wiped a clammy hand on her thighs, then took out her weapon. “You’ll need my clinch piece. You can’t go in unarmed.”

  “I’ve got what I need.” He sent her a grim smile as they flew out over the water.

  She let that go and called up the data on the in-dash. “Five locations, from base to crown,” she said, studying the image. “If they follow these plans, how long would it take you to deactivate them?”

  “Depends. I can’t say until I see the devices.”

  “Backup’s nine minutes behind us. If this is the target, it’s going to be mostly up to you to take the explosives down.”

  “Activate long-range sensor and screen,” he ordered. The in-dash monitor blipped on. Eve saw lights, shadows, symbols. “That’s your target. Two people, two droids, one vehicle.”

  “Have they activated?”

  “I can’t read explosives with this equipment.” He made a mental note to add that capability. “But they’re there.”

  “Droids here, and here?” She tapped a finger on the screen, indicated the black dots on the screen.

  “Guarding the base. Ever been in the lady?”

  “No.”

  “Shame on you,” he said mildly. “Museums in the base. She’s on a pedestal, several stories high. Added together, she’s got to be twenty, twenty-two stories, easy. There are elevators, but I wouldn’t recommend them under the circumstances. There’ll be stairs. Narrow, winding metal. Up to the crown. Then a jag and they follow up to the torch.”

  Eve wiped a hand over her mouth. “You don’t, like, own her or anything?”