The In Death Collection 06-10 (129 page)

“That’s the part that hung me up all along, but a guy tells you he kills another guy, you generally go with it. Still we’ve got no body, and there’s nothing on the droid playback to indicate he was instructed to weigh it down. The search team’s sensors don’t pick another up, it doesn’t bob up and float, but we know it got tossed in the river.”

“Droids don’t float, and the sensors are looking for flesh, blood, and bone.”

“See, you’re catching up. Now, we connect those dots. Zeke killed himself a droid. We have Lisbeth’s statement that there were never any beatings, no rapes, and odds are she’d have known if there were. Through J. C., if not on her own. We have the coincidence that Zeke just happened to be in the right place at the right time to hear beatings and rapes, then Clarissa turns to him for help. She’s already scoped him; she knows the kind of man he is, and very likely made the subtle kind of play for him he wouldn’t see as a come-on.”

“He doesn’t understand women,” Peabody murmured. “He’s practically still a kid.”

“He wouldn’t understand this one if he’d hit the century mark. She trolled for him and reeled him in. She and Branson got rid of the brother, which leads me to believe he wasn’t involved in Cassandra. He was weight, so they ditched him. I’m primary on the case, and they don’t want me looking too hard, having just the kind of talk with Lisbeth I just finished having, so they tag me on the bombings. Blowing up the city’s going to pull my attention away from a plea bargain I know I can’t change.”

“Whoever had pulled J. C. Branson’s homicide would have been tagged? They moved to you because of that?”
Peabody considered. “That was their big mistake.”

“That was excellent sucking up, Peabody. Smooth, subtle.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

“The politics are more smoke—pull the attention away, waste our time. It’s the money they’re after and the sheer delight in destroying.”

“But they have money.”

“More’s better, especially if you grew up on the run, hiding out, maybe scraping for the good life. What do you want to bet Clarissa Branson spent her formative years in Apollo?”

“That’s a big leap, Lieutenant.”

“ ‘We are loyal,” ’ Eve quoted as she zipped through the security gate to the parking area under Roarke’s midtown offices.

Peabody gawked a little when they moved into the private elevator, but before she could comment, Eve’s ’link beeped.

“Lieutenant Dallas? Captain Sully, Boston PD. The patrols just reported in from the Rowan address. Monica Rowan has been the victim of what appears to be a bungled B and E. She’s dead.”

“Damn it. I’ll need a full report on that, priority level, Captain.”

“I’ll get you as much as I can as quick as I can. Sorry we can’t be of more help.”

“So am I,” Eve murmured as she ended the call. “Goddamn it, I should’ve put a wall around her.”

“How could you know?”

“I do know. Just a little too late.” She strode out of the elevator, moved past Roarke’s efficient assistant without stopping.

Efficiency prevailed, however. Roarke was opening the door for her himself when Eve got there.

“Lieutenant, I didn’t expect you personally.”

“I’m heading in. I’m pressed to the wall here.” She looked in his eyes, wished she could say . . . wanted to.
“Things are coming together, and the clock’s running.”

“Then you’ll want your bait.” He looked into her eyes. “I assume several million in counterfeit bonds is bait—with you as hook.”

“We’re closing in. With any luck, this should finish it. I—Peabody, take a walk,” she said without looking back.

“Sir?”

“Step out, Peabody.”

“Stepping out, Lieutenant.”

“Look . . .” Eve began. “I’m really hitting the wire on this, so I can’t get into stuff. I’m sorry about before.”

“You’re sorry I’m irritated.”

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry you’re irritated, but I have to ask for a favor.”

“Personal or official?”

Oh, he was going to make it tough. She leveled her gaze, and a muscle in her cheek twitched. “Both. I need everything you can dig up on Clarissa Branson—everything—And I need it really fast. I can’t spare Feeney, and even if I could, you’ll be quicker and you won’t leave fingerprints.”

“Where do you want me to send the data?”

“I need you to call me with it, privacy mode, on my personal palm-link. I don’t want her to know I’m looking.”

“She won’t.” He turned and lifted a wide steel case. “Your bonds, Lieutenant.”

She tried a smile. “I won’t ask you how you managed this so fast.”

He didn’t smile back. “Best not.”

She nodded, hefted the case, and felt miserable. She couldn’t remember another time when they’d been together for five minutes and he hadn’t touched her in some way. She’d gotten so used to it, so dependent on it, that she felt the loss like a backhanded slap.

“Thanks. I’ll—The hell with it.” She took a fistful of his hair, and swallowing what for her was a great gulp
of pride, pressed her mouth hard to his. “See you later,” she muttered and turned on her heel, stormed out.

Now he smiled, just a little, and walked to his desk to do the favor she’d asked of him.

“You okay, Dallas?”

“Yeah, shit. I’m dancing.” She was stripped down to her undershirt and jeans, a fact which mildly embarrassed both her and Feeney.

“I can call in a female to, ah, finish this.”

“Hell, I don’t want any ham-handed EDD chick pawing at me. Just do it.”

“All right, okay.” He cleared his throat, rolled his shoulders. “The tracker’s wireless. It’s going to go right over your heart. We figure they’ll scan you, but we’re going to coat it with this stuff—it’s like skin. They’re using it on droids. If they pick it up at all, it’ll look like a blemish or something.”

“So they’ll think I have a pimple on my tit. Fine.”

“You know, Peabody could do this.”

“Jesus, Feeney.” Somebody had to get going, so keeping her gaze trained over his shoulder, she yanked up her shirt. “Put the damn thing where it goes.”

The next five minutes were mortifying for both of them.

“You, ah, want to hold your shirt out for a couple of minutes, till the skin strip dries.”

“I’ve got it.”

“I’ll be on the tracker myself. We’ll be able to monitor your location through your heartbeat. We rigged this wrist unit.” Relieved the worst was over, he picked it up from the table. “The mike’s low frequency, so it shouldn’t pop on a scan, but its range is a joke, and you’re going to have to talk straight into it for us to pick you up. This is just backup.”

“I’ll take it.” Eve removed her own unit, replaced it. “Anything else I should know?”

“We’re positioning men all over Grand Central. You
won’t be on your own. Nobody moves in until you give the go-ahead, but they’re there.”

“Good to know.”

“Dallas, any protective gear over your chest will jam the tracker.”

She stared at him. “No vest?”

“Your choice. Gear or tracker.”

“Hell, they’re more likely to blast me in the head, anyway.”

“Goddamn it.”

“Joking.” But she rubbed a hand over her mouth. “Any line on the target?”

“Nothing so far.”

“You looked over the droids at Branson T and T?”

“Yeah, they’ve got a new Brainiac line.” He smiled a little now. “New shell covering, too. Next best to skin. But they’re toys,” he added. “I didn’t see anything full size.”

“Doesn’t mean they aren’t there. Those toys capable of acting out a scene like what happened at Branson’s?”

“If they were six foot instead of six inches, yeah. I’d say. Creepy little bastards, you ask me.”

“That’s my personal ’link,” she said when she heard the signal. “I have to take this. It’s private.”

“Okay, I’ll be outside. We’re ready to roll when you are.”

Alone, she took out her ’link, engaged the privacy mode by unfolding and slipping on her headphones. “Dallas.”

“I have your data, Lieutenant.” Roarke’s eyes narrowed. “Where’s your shirt?”

“Somewhere. Here.” She grabbed it up. “What have you got?”

“She checks out easily if you skim the first few levels. Born in Kansas thirty-six years ago, parents are teachers, pure middle class, one sister, married with son. She went through the local school system, worked for a short time as a department store clerk. She married
Branson about ten years ago, moved to New York. I assume you have all that.”

“I want what’s under it.”

“So I thought. The names her records show as parents did indeed have a daughter named Clarissa born thirty-six years ago. However, she died at the age of eight. Scraping off the levels, we find this dead child with school and employment records and a marriage license.”

“Bogus.”

“Yes, indeed. A little dip into Clarissa Stanley’s medical files indicates she hasn’t seen the age of thirty-six for some time. She’s forty-six. Tracing the data input, it appears Clarissa was reborn twelve years ago. Whoever, whatever she was before, has been wiped. I might be able to jiggle some out, but it won’t be quick.”

“That’s enough for now. She wanted a new ID, and not to carve ten years off her age.”

“If you do a bit more math, you see that she would have been exactly the same age as Charlotte Rowan when Apollo headquarters was destroyed.”

“I’ve already done the math, thanks.”

“Since I followed your avenue here, I took it a bit farther.”

“Farther where?”

“Some may disagree,” he said with a long look at her, “but people in intimate relationships generally have some common ground and a general knowledge of each other’s ambitions and activities.”

Guilt fizzed back into her chest. “Look, Roarke—”

“Shut up, Eve.” He said it so pleasantly, she did. “Since it appears Clarissa may have close ties with Rowan and Apollo, I did some back-checking on B. Donald. Nothing in particular there, except for a number of large and perhaps questionable contributions to the Artemis Society.”

“Another Greek god?”

“Yes, and Apollo’s twin. I doubt we’ll find any data on it in the banks. However, looking a generation back,
I found that E. Francis Branson, B. D.’s father, contributed large amounts to this same organization. He was also—according to CIA files—briefly an operative. He not only knew James Rowan but worked with him.”

“Which closed the link between the Bransons and the Rowans. Branson grew up with Apollo; so did Clarissa. They hooked up and kept heading down the same path. We are loyal.” She let out a breath. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Eve, how much of a risk are you about to take?”

“I’ll have backup.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I appreciate the help.”

“Any time.”

Words, many of them foolish, bubbled into her throat. And Feeney stuck his head in the door. “We have to move, Dallas.”

“Yeah, right. I’m there. Time to saddle up,” she said with a half smile at Roarke. “See you tonight.”

“Take care of what’s mine, Lieutenant.”

She smiled again as she slipped the ’link away. She knew he hadn’t meant the bonds.

Having backup and a tracker didn’t stop her from feeling alone and exposed as she moved through the crushing crowd in Grand Central. She spotted some cops whose faces she knew. Her eyes passed over them, and theirs over hers, without interest.

The speakers droned overhead, announcing incoming and outgoing transports. Flocks of commuters lined the public ’links, calling home, calling lovers, calling their bookies.

Eve strode past them. In the surveillance van two blocks away, Feeney noted her heartbeat was smooth and steady.

She saw the vagrants who’d come in from the cold and would soon be rousted out again by security.
Vendors sold the news, on paper, on disc, as well as cheap souvenirs, hot drinks, and cold beer.

She took the stairs rather than the glide and moved down to check point. Lifting her arm as if to push at her hair, she muttered into her wrist unit.

“Leaving main level for check point. No contact yet.”

She felt the floor tremble, heard the whining scream as a bullet train tore out of the station.

She stood on the platform, one hand firm on the suitcase, the other in plain view. If they were going to take her out, they would do it here, fast, taking advantage of the crowd waiting for their transport. One takes her out, another snags the case, and they’re lost in the confusion.

That’s what she would do, Eve thought. That’s how she’d play the game.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw McNab in a bright yellow coat, blue shoes, and ski hat, idling at a computer game while he sat on a bench in the waiting area.

They were scanning her now, she imagined. They’d find she was armed, but they’d have expected that. If she was lucky, and Feeney was good, they wouldn’t make the tracker.