Eve walked to the doorway. “Peabody!”
Her partner hustled down the ruined corridor in pink cowboy boots. “This is ours. Treat it as a homicide until it looks otherwise. Bomber, deceased, was Paul Rogan—do a run. Officers are en route to his residence to locate his wife and daughter—neither of which is where they should be this morning.”
“Devoted family man.” As she looked into the conference room, Peabody blew out a breath. “According to one of the wits who survived that. A Sandy Plank, another VP, minor injuries, treated on-site. Hardworking, loyal, smart, and crazy in love with his wife and daughter, is how she describes Rogan.”
“The loyal don’t generally blow up their boss and coworkers,” Eve pointed out.
“Yeah. She’s a mess—Plank, I mean. She states he didn’t look well, and she heard him mumbling to himself. She thought he said: There needs to be or has to be another way. And when his boss and Willimina Karson—head of EconoLift—came into the meeting, Rogan walked over to them. Plank said she was watching Rogan because she thought he must have been feeling ill. She heard him say he didn’t have a choice. He said he was sorry. He was, according to her, crying. Then he opened his suit jacket. Boom.”
“Run him, and let’s find out what this meeting was about. Details. Any idea where his office is?”
“Down and left, second right. Salazar put a man on the door.”
“I’ll take it.” She started down, stopped. “Pearson, deceased, was top dog. Let’s find out who’s top dog now.”
Eve made her way to Rogan’s office, badged the officer on the door. Inside she closed the door, stood, scanned.
Big window due to VP status, she mused, and a refreshment station with AutoChef. Curious, she checked the AC for previous orders.
Nothing since Friday at 16:22. A tube of ginger ale.
The desk was angled, giving Rogan the window and the door view. A good desk chair, two sturdy visitors’ chairs, club style in a smooth coffee-brown leather. A sofa—navy-blue gel—with a long table. Walls, light brown decorated with aeronautic art.
An evolution of air travel, she realized—from those early deals that made Eve wonder how anyone had had the balls to jump into, up to sleek shuttles. With them, a child’s drawing in bright primary colors of a plane flying in a sky with white clouds and a yellow circle of sun.
The artist had signed it in careful block letters. MELODY.
The daughter. Devoted family man, Eve thought, who framed his kid’s drawing and hung it on his office wall.
On the desk in addition to a top-grade data and communication center, a brightly painted cup held a bouquet of paper flowers, all clearly handmade. Eve lifted the cup, looked at the bottom.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DADDY
LOVE,
MELODY
JANUARY 18, 2061
The desk held a triple frame, an attractive mixed-race female, late thirties, and a seriously beautiful girl—Melody, no doubt—with mad toffee-colored curls, laughing eyes of pale green, and a joyful smile that showed the gap where she’d lost a couple of baby teeth. They flanked one of the family, the child cuddled between Rogan and his wife.
The visual said happy, loving, attractive family.
If there’d been problems on the home front, it didn’t show here.
She sat behind his desk.
“Computer, open ops.”
It fluttered on to a holding screen. Password required . . .
Ignoring that for now, she opened desk drawers. Standard office supplies, some file discs, some hard copy files. And a memo book.
She switched it on and, as it wasn’t password protected, paged to the current date.
ECON! Meeting/signing* 9:00. Final presentation and reveal. Don’t sweat it!
Confirm cupcakes and champagne for department thank-you by 11:30. Send department memo for meeting (surprise party). Set for 4:15. Prepared remarks—brief.
Personal bonuses for Rudy and Kimmi for job amazingly well done.
Home by 6:00—stop for flowers for your amazing girls! Act surprised at the celebration dinner those amazing girls have been whispering about for a week. One hour post-dinner to resume Dragon Spear tourney with Mel—too long postponed. Tuck Mel into bed, and make love to your beautiful wife—way too long postponed.
Get some damn sleep!
Eve sat back, swiveled to look out the window. Why would a man so obviously looking forward to a day—business and personal—blow it all up, himself included?
She paged ahead, noted several appointments—again business and personal—in that same easy stream-of-thought style. She paged back, found several weeks of an intense work schedule, much of which revolved around Econo strategy sessions, planning sessions, marketing campaigns—aside apologies to his amazing girls for missing dinner or dance practice.
Nothing to indicate depression, anger—frustration here and there, yes, but not anger. Nothing to indicate he’d bought or acquired explosives or had the knowledge to create a suicide vest.
“Doesn’t fit,” she muttered, looking at the triple frame photos. “You don’t fit.”
As she pulled out her comm, Peabody gave the door two knuckle raps, then poked in.
“Pearson—son and daughter—will probably cohead the company. Son was in London handling that area, and daughter in Rome when things went boom. Both are on their way back. As for Paul Rogan—”
“Clean as they come?” Eve finished.
“You got that. Financially secure—no signs of trouble there. Nothing to show any knowledge or interest in explosives, in political fringe associations. Company man, in charge of marketing for the last three and a half years. Worked his way up with over eleven years in the company. The same goes for the wife. I ran her. Actually, she had an assault charge brought when she was in her twenties—dropped. And the guy who brought the charge was subsequently charged with spousal and child abuse.”
“Okay, it doesn’t add up.” Eve reached for her comm again, and it signaled in her hand. “Dallas.”
“Lieutenant, Officers Gregg and Vols. We’re at the Rogan/Greenspan residence. Greenspan’s been worked over, and was bound, locked in a basement storage room. The minor child’s unharmed except for some bruises and minor lacerations. We called the MTs for the woman. Both she and the kid claim home invasion.”
“That adds up. Secure the scene. If the MTs need to take Greenspan to a med center, one of you goes with her, one sits on the residence. I’m on my way.
“Peabody,” she said as she clicked off. “Inform Salazar of the situation, and contact EDD. I want all Rogan’s e’s—office and home—taken in. I want an e-man at the residence to go over security. I’ll seal this office and get a team in here. Move. Meet me at the car.”
She bagged the memo book, sealed and labeled it as she contacted her bullpen.
“Yo, LT,” Detective Baxter said.
“Are you and Trueheart clear?”
“Clear enough. What do you need?”
“I need you at Quantum Air, coordinating with Lieutenant Salazar.”
“On the boomer.”
She sealed the office as she barked out orders.
“Bring a couple of uniforms. Peabody started getting statements. You finish. Everybody, down to the cleaning service. Two honchos are coming in—family of CEO. I’m going to want to talk to them as soon as possible.”
“How many dead?” Baxter asked.
“Eleven, so far. Nine injured.”
“It could’ve been worse. I’ll contact Salazar, let her know we’re coming in. Are you on scene?”
“I won’t be. I’ve got a second crime scene. I’ll brief you when I know more. Dallas, out.”
It could’ve been worse. Baxter said it, she’d thought it. The thing was, when things could be worse, they usually got there.
* * *
Eve beat Peabody to the car, and peeled out of the slot the minute Peabody hopped in. She wove through the underground lot at a speed that had her partner gripping the chicken stick.
“You said it added up.” Peabody’s eyes, dark brown and widening at every swerve, closed to spare her brain the visual of a crash. “I’m putting some of the numbers in columns. Somebody broke into Rogan’s house, threatened his wife and kid, and forced him to kill himself? I don’t get the two-plus-two.”
“Somebody says take this boom vest to work Monday morning, strap it on and wear it to the meeting at nine. Blow it up. Do that, or we kill your amazing girls.”
“His amazing girls?”
“That’s what he called his wife and kid. In his memo book. I don’t know why this guy, why this meeting, why this company, or why this method, but that part adds up.”
“Wit statements say he was alone in his office, at least for a few minutes before the meeting. He doesn’t call for help?”
“Could’ve had him wired. I would have. Let him hear the wife getting slapped around, or the kid crying for her daddy.”
“That’s unbelievably cruel.”
“Nothing cruel’s unbelievable.” She arrowed out of the underground, zipped into traffic. “Why the marketing guy? They needed somebody who’d not only kill for his wife and kid, but die for them. But how did they know he would? We need to know more about this Quantum-Econo deal. Was the deal the thing? Was there something about it that made someone willing to kill—to use what appears to be an innocent man and his family as the weapon?”
“I use Econo a lot,” Peabody said. “Or did before I had a mag partner with a magalish husband who lets me use Roarke’s private shuttles.”
She’d used Econo herself, Eve thought, before Roarke. They were as bare as bare bones got, and therefore affordable if you had to use air travel. She wondered if Roarke had ever used them, before becoming one of the richest men in the known universe—and one who had his own transpo lines as well.
She’d tap that source, she thought, that expert consultant, civilian. If anybody knew the ins and outs of the QuantumAir-EconoLift deal outside of the particulars in the deal, it would be Roarke.