The A-T waited. She decided Roarke had ordered it with the idea she’d have more than Peabody in tow. “Leave your ride,” she told Baxter. “I’ll get you back to it.”
He and Trueheart climbed in the back with McNab. “You figure he’ll try to rabbit?”
“He’s arrogant, so that won’t be his first impulse. Insult, fury, threats—lawyer, blah-blah. Might be he’ll try the rabbit when he realizes we’re going to find his cache—because he damn well has one.”
“Don’t want to be a downer,” Peabody began, “but what if he keeps the trophies in another location? A storage locker we don’t know about, another residence we haven’t uncovered.”
“He needs to look, touch, bask whenever the mood strikes. He needs them with him.”
“I’ve got a basketball trophy from high school.” Trueheart smiled at the idea. “My mom keeps it on a shelf in the living room. And the team picture from that year, too.”
“I’ve got first-place comp science awards from elementary school,” McNab added. “I like looking at them.”
“Not sick, but sweet—ever the geek,” Baxter commented. “Still, same thing. How about the boy and I do a walk around the building while the rest of you serve the warrant? Just in case he tries to climb out a window.”
“That’ll work.”
She grabbed a street spot, watched Olsen pass and circle as she hunted up a place to park.
Eve got out, studied Knightly’s building. Square and substantial on the corner, with the bricks painted a silvery gray, the windows privacy screened, the double entrance doors heavily secured.
“Let’s take a walk, my man.” Baxter slapped a hand to Trueheart’s shoulder and they strode away.
Though everything inside her revved—get this done, get this done—Eve waited until Olsen and Tredway rounded the corner on foot.
She pulled out her PPC, checked, then printed out the warrant.
“Here we go.”
“Bet he recognizes us,” Tredway said to his partner, then glanced at Eve. “We interviewed him after the Patricks. Never got a buzz, and I’m pretty pissed about that now.”
“You didn’t have enough.”
“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” Olsen said under her breath. “But we’ve got it now.”
“Record on.” Eve pressed the buzzer.
“Dallas? I’m betting that cam goes to a screen in most every room in the place.” McNab stood casually, orange earflaps over his bedecked lobes, kept his back to the cam, and his voice low. “Audio, too.”
“Hmm. It’s a good thing we’re cleared to enter whether or not the resident is home.” Eve didn’t keep her voice low. “I’m going to give it another buzz or two, in case he’s a late sleeper. Peabody, you can get the battering ram out of the vehicle if the occupant doesn’t answer.”
It took less than thirty seconds more for the locks to click. Kyle opened the door, casual sweater, pants, skids. Because she knew him—she knew him—Eve watched him paint a mask of fear over his face.
“Neville and Rosa. Something happened. God, what—”
“Nope.” Eve held up the warrant. “We are authorized to enter this building and search same. Please step back.”
“What? Wait a damn minute.”
“You need to step back,” Eve said when he tried to block the door. “Now,” she added, shoving her shoulder against it as he started to slam it shut.
“You can’t just break in here,” he began.
“Warrant, read it.”
“I don’t give a goddamn about some ridiculous warrant. This is private property. This is my home. Get out.”
“Mr. Knightly.” Tredway’s voice stayed cool as ice. “You don’t want to interfere with a duly executed warrant.”
“Fuck you and your warrant.” Rage stained red over his face; insult glittered in his eyes. “We’ll see what my lawyer has to say.”
“Yeah, you see what your lawyer has to say. Peabody, take this first area, McNab, all electronics.”
Kyle shouldered Olsen aside, pushed his face into Eve’s. There was the pure, hot, violent fury, unmasked, she’d waited for. “You touch anything, you so much as lay a finger on an inch of my home, I’ll have your badge, you arrogant bitch. You touch nothing!” He dragged his ’link out of his pocket. “My lawyer will deal with this, and you.”
“Peabody, Olsen, Tredway.” After each name, Eve pointed in a direction. “You’re in my way, Mr. Knightly.”
“Get out of my house. Marco, get Wesley on the ’link. I don’t give a fuck who he’s talking to! Get him now!”
“You need to move, Mr. Knightly.”
“You need to move,” he snapped back, and shoved her.
Eve signaled the others to stay back with a hand held down at her side. Oh, yeah, she knew him. And just which buttons to push.
“You may think you’re in charge here, but you’re wrong. I’m in charge. You’re going to do what I tell you to do and step back. You don’t want to lay a hand on me again.”
“You don’t tell me what to do! Get out of my house.” He backhanded her. She could’ve dodged it—he telegraphed the move—but she wanted the hit, wanted the taste of blood in her mouth.
She heard four weapons slap out of their harnesses.