Devoted in Death (28 page)

“Is that so?”

“It is so. His opinion while not a piece of cowshit, it ain’t much after it hits ninety thousand miles or thereabouts. But he’d be happy to take a look at her if I want to bring her by.”

“Okay.” She turned to her board, nodded. “Okay. We’ll see what Carmichael and Santiago get out of him. It feels right. Meanwhile.”

Her desk ’link signaled. She walked over. “What?”

“Say thank you,” Roarke requested.

“What for?”

“For Elsie and Maddox Hornesby of Bloomingdale who own a ’58 Country Scout van, color Indigo, with an OBX sticker in the left rear window.”

“Why them and not the eighty-two others?”

“I culled that down to thirty-nine, then hit the Hornesbys who, from my subtle invasion of their privacy, I determined have spent eight weeks – January and February – the last three winters in the Bahamas where they own a beach house.”

“Can’t report the vehicle stolen if they don’t know it’s stolen.”

“That would be my thought. A… brief glance at their financials indicate they drive themselves to the Newark transpo center, use long-term parking. I’ve heard boosting a vehicle from long-term parking is a very handy way to acquire one.”

“I bet you have.”

He smiled at her, in just that way. “Their contact information is on your comp.”

“You earned a thank-you. I have to move on this.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Peabody,” Eve began as she cut Roarke off.

“Ahead of you. Contacting transpo security at Newark.”

Since the data was there, as promised, Eve used her desk ’link. She didn’t try to figure what time it might be in the Bahamas, and didn’t care.

“Maddox Hornesby.”

Eve looked at the tanned, relaxed face, the short stream of sun-streaked hair. “Mr. Hornesby, I’m Lieutenant Dallas, with the New York City Police and Security Department.”

“So I see. What can I do for you?”

“You own a Country Scout van, ’58 model year.”

“That’s right.” The relaxed smile faded as his eyebrows drew together. She heard a woman’s voice –
“Mad! You promised no business!”

“It’s not. Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

“Can you give me the location of your vehicle?”

“Long-term parking, Deck A, slot 45, Newark Transportation. What is this about?”

Eve turned to Peabody, who nodded.

“What is your current location?”

“I’m sitting on my deck in the Bahamas with my wife who just handed me a mimosa and thinks I’m talking to our broker. What’s going on?”

“We had an incident with a vehicle that matches yours. Do you have an OBX sticker on the —”

“Left rear window, bottom corner. What kind of incident?”

“We’re checking on that, Mr. Hornesby, and contacting security at the transportation center. Either they or I will contact you if necessary.” She couldn’t help it. “Could you tell me what time it is there?”

“Time? It’s… it’s eight-forty-five.”

“In the morning?”

“Of course in the morning.”

Eve said, “Huh,” fascinated and a little irritated there was no time difference.

“Did someone steal our old van?”

“We’re looking into that, Mr. Hornesby.”

“Mad, didn’t I tell you that was bound to happen? How many times did I tell you we should take a limo to the airport?”
 

“All right, Elsie, all right.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’d like to know when you parked your vehicle.”

“January four, at eight a.m.”

“Thank you, you’ve been very helpful. Someone will contact you with more details.”

“Do we need to come back?”

“No, there’s no need to interrupt your vacation. Thank you.”

She clicked off as the female voice began to rag on Hornesby again.

“We got the vehicle. Peabody, APB – now. If sighted, do not approach. Contact me, do not approach, follow only at a distance.”

She pushed up. “How come the Bahamas gets to have the same time we do? It doesn’t seem right.”

And setting that puzzle aside, she went for another hit of coffee.

Things were breaking.

16

Eve started a deeper run on the nephew while Peabody confirmed the all-points on the stolen van.

“Banner, Hanks has a nephew, Hanks, Curtis Monroe, age twenty-eight, rancher. Sending his contact to your PPC now. Play the good-old boy again. Confirm his whereabouts, get a feel for him. He doesn’t play for me, but let’s nail him down.”

“Got it. What’s he drive?”

“Drive?”

“Say we had a hit-and-run in Silby’s Pond, and his vehicle matches the description.”

“Okay, I got that. It’s a… ’56 Toro pickup, forest-green exterior, OK plate 572 Echo-Papa-Alpha. Second vehicle, motorcycle, ’60 Hawker Midnight Rider, color gunmetal, personalized OK plate: BOOM. That’s Beta, Omega —”

“Got it. I’ll go with the cycle.”

When he walked out, Eve rose to update her board. “Peabody, write up where we are – all the details – send an update to Whitney, Mira, Carmichael and Santiago. Fold in Baxter and Trueheart, too. If they’re clear, I want them starting on Banner’s list of shops and restaurants.”

“Trueheart’s got the exam today. He’d be starting in about an hour.”

“Right.” Shit. Shit, fuck, damn. “Right. Okay, fold in Baxter. He and Banner can work the sector together with the best image McNab can pull out of the vid feed. Let Baxter know we’ll be at Central with Banner within the hour.”

She studied the board as she added data, shifted data.

Hanks = truck dumped by unsubs at Jansen kill site.

That took the unsubs back to Oklahoma. And damn it, it connected them, somehow, with Hanks. Why didn’t he report a theft, if there had been one? More likely he sold, under the table, or lent the truck.

Selling more likely as who lends a truck to anybody for months?

But the damn thing was still registered in his name. Wouldn’t he have fixed that for a sale?

She studied the nephew’s photo again. Just didn’t feel right. But if there was a nephew, there might be cousins, uncles, aunts, whatever. Good buddies, or just someone he owed a major solid to.

Younger, she thought as she circled the board. Not a contemporary. Someone young enough to be his son or daughter.

Girlfriend? Maybe he went for the young ones, and she’d sexed him into giving her the truck. Or maybe he had a girlfriend with a son or daughter who —

“Nephew Hanks is on the ranch,” Banner announced. “Seemed like a nice guy, and upstanding come to that. Got upset about the hit-and-run, wanted to know if anybody was hurt. Cooperated straight down. I gave him the night Campbell was snatched, and he says he had a poker party that night, went till about one in the morning. Gave me a dozen names to verify, and said I could come on out and test his cycle.”

“Cross him off. We’re not going to move much there until my people grill Hanks.” Not move there, she thought, but time to move in other directions. “Wrap it up, Peabody. We’re heading downtown. Banner, I’m going to hook you up with Detective Baxter. You can start canvassing those shops and restaurants on your list with the best image we have of the male unsub. You add in the couple, the age range profiled, the accent. Maybe we hit. When we get their names, faces – and we damn well will – we’ll send them to you.”

“Ready when you are, Lieutenant.”

“Meet you downstairs. I’m going to go by the comp lab first.”

She found her three favorite geeks in a huddle, with one screen running face recognition, another working on enhancing the loading-dock feed.

Roarke turned to her first. “The feed’s complete rubbish. We can push at it for hours, but we’re just not going to do much better. You can’t enhance what isn’t there.”

“I’ll take what you’ve got. McNab, send it to Banner, to Baxter. Might as well make the sweep and send it to all parties. Hanks is the link, and we’ll pull the data out of him one way or the other. I’m going in.”

“You want my take?” Feeney asked her.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Your guy here?” He gestured to the screen and the grainy shadow of an image. “He hasn’t seen thirty yet, or if he has, he’s barely had a glimpse. We figure he’s about six feet, maybe six-one, lean with it. Coat adds some bulk, but not much. He wanted to be able to move fast. He’s white. Low probability on mixed race from what we can figure.”

“That’s more for Baxter and Banner. How about her?”

“She’s clearer as she was the bait for the boy,” Roarke said, rocking on his heels now as he studied what they had of the female. “We’ve calculated her height at five-five, her weight between one-twenty and one-thirty. She’s got a good set of legs there. We get the hair – though it may be a wig – long and blond. Again we’d play odds on white for race, and her age? Given the body, as we don’t have a clear view of the face, the analysis of her voice from what we had, most likely between twenty-five and thirty.

“I did run her voice on a dialect program as well,” he added. “It pegs her as northwestern Oklahoma.”

“Okay, it’s all more than we had, and we’ll get more.” For a moment longer she stared at the image as if she could bring it clear through sheer force of will. “Crack’s widening. Feeney, do you need a lift to Central?”

“I’ve got my ride. Do you want the boy?”

“I’ll take him if you can spare him.”

“Take him. Tag me if you need more.” He flicked a finger salute at Roarke. “Nice working with you.”

“And you. I’ll run with this for another thirty, then I’ll leave it open if you want to send more data by remote.”

“Appreciate that.” Just how much would he juggle today? she wondered – then set the idea aside as it was more than she could imagine. “Head down, McNab. Peabody and Banner are doing the same.”

“On the way. Fun toys,” he said to Roarke, and walked out with Feeney.

Eve stuck her hands in her pockets. “As soon as this one closes, I’ll be the only cop in the house for a while.”

Roarke stepped to her, laid his hands on her shoulders. “I like your cops.” Kissed her lightly. “I believe I like Banner now that I’ve had a bit of a chance to know him. Speaking of cops, Feeney’s coat’s done. Summerset has it downstairs. Knowing the both of you, I assumed you wouldn’t want to give it to him in company.”

“No.” Gifts were sticky enough, in her opinion. “Anyway, you should give it to him.”

Understanding her well, Roarke gave her shoulders a squeeze. “It was your idea, and a fine one. And he was your cop first. The two of you will survive a gift. Go on now, and mind your step out there. I definitely want a cop in my bed tonight.”

“I bet that’s something you never thought you’d say.” This time she kissed him. “Thanks for the assist. I’ll keep you in the loop if you want.”

“I want.”

“Done,” she said and strode out.

He watched her go and, fingering the gray button he carried always in his pocket, turned back to the screens to do what he could in the time he had.

She jogged down, found all her cops still in a gaggle. As she grabbed her coat off the newel post, Summerset slid into view – like smoke – with a box wrapped in plain brown paper. Before she could evade, he pushed it into her hands.

“As requested.”

Not now, she wanted to say, but the box had already caught Peabody’s interest.

“Whatcha got?”

“It’s just a thing.” She muttered it, couldn’t figure how to avoid the presentation. Get it over with, she decided, and gave Summerset the fish-eye. “Vehicles out front?”

“Of course.”

She narrowed the fish-eye until he glided – like more smoke – away.

“Go pile in,” she told the rest. “Feeney, give me a minute?”

Banner unfolded himself from his crouch, giving Galahad one last stroke along the way. Peabody nearly turned her head in a one-eighty to keep Eve and the box in view as they went out the door.

“It’s a thing,” Eve repeated, and pushed the box at Feeney. “For you.”

His hands went directly into his pockets; his face fell into wary lines. “Why?”

She often thought the same when it came to gifts, so only shrugged. “Just a… you know,” she mumbled, and shoved it at him.

He looked puzzled, mildly embarrassed, but ripped the paper away. Wanting to keep it moving, she snagged the paper from him, balled it up, and tossed it on the closest table. Then got busy putting on her coat.

“Well, fuck me sideways.”

The stunned pleasure in his voice gave twin tugs – that mild embarrassment, and quick satisfaction. She turned back, pulling the scarf out of her pocket when he dumped the box on the floor, pulled out the coat.

“Son of a bitch!”

He grinned as he held it up. Shit-brown – she’d chosen the color as it was his usual choice of hue – the coat with its protective lining would, she saw, hit him about mid-thigh.

She’d left the design to Roarke, saw he’d gone roomy, simple, and had added the flash of captain’s bars as buttons.

“You got me a goddamn magic coat.”

“Well, Roarke —”

“Son of a bitch.” Still grinning, he punched her in the shoulder, then immediately pulled off his old shit-brown coat, dumped it on the floor.

“Bastard fits, too.” He folded it back, studied the lining with a shake of his head. “Freaking genius is what it is.”

More comfortable discussing the body armor aspect, she relaxed a bit. “No bulk, no weight, and it works. Deflects a full stun – I can attest. Sharps, too, though I haven’t personally tested that one.”

“Son of a bitch,” he said for a third time, and met her eyes. His ears had gone faintly pink. “  ’Preciate it.”

“Sure.”

He bent to gather up his old coat, the box, and looked at her again. “Really appreciate it.”

“Really sure.”

“Wait till the wife gets a load of this.” He skimmed one hand down the leather. “Let’s go get some bad guys, kid.”

“It’s what we do.”

They walked out. She heard him murmur “son of a bitch” yet again as they peeled off to their separate vehicles.

The instant she was in the car, Peabody leaned forward from the backseat she shared with McNab. “Is that a magic coat? Did you get Feeney a magic coat? Awww!”

“What’s a magic coat?” Banner demanded. “What kind of magic?”