“I’m going to show you a picture. Tell me if you think this might be one of the men.” Eve brought up Markin’s ID shot, laid her thumb over the data.
Biting her lip, Lollie studied it. “I want to say yes because I want to help, but I just don’t know. I want to help. I modeled for Angelo. He paid me fair, and it helped me buy paints. I want to help. I’m so sorry.”
“You have helped, both of you.”
“We helped, Astrid.” Lollie turned her face into Astrid’s shoulder.
Eve left them, went back upstairs where Baxter and Trueheart worked with Peabody.
“The sweepers are heading in,” Peabody told her.
“We’ve got an estimated time frame. Richie left about eleven-thirty. The nine-one-one on the bombing came in at fourteen-forty-six. Best estimate for the killers walking out of here with some of Richie’s paintings is between fourteen-thirty and fifteen hundred.”
Baxter shook his head. “No way they tore up all these paintings, loaded up whatever they took in that amount of time—post bomb time. Fifteen minutes? They had to get in, get up, do all this, pack up paintings, get out.”
“That’s right. They had Denby wired, so they could watch him. Cut him loose, followed him or dumped him near the Salon, continued here. It’s just a few blocks. They were probably in here, packing up what they wanted when the bomb went off. Then they tore up the rest. No need to tear up the rest if Denby didn’t follow through. They’d still have a few more paintings, so that’s a win either way.”
“Security’s crap here,” Baxter considered. “Wouldn’t take much to get through it. Hop the elevator. Already packing material here, just use it, bust things up, cart things out. Transport?”
“Black panel van. Shiny. That’s all the wit’s got. Two men—in black—sunshades, earflap hats. It’s a bright, breezy day, so that’s not going to stand out. She didn’t get a good look, didn’t pay attention, but we’ve got a black van, the timing, and that’s more than nothing.”
“I’ll get uniforms to canvass,” Baxter said.
“Do that. Trueheart, start checking rentals of late-model black panel vans.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Baxter, give me what you got from the wife and kid.”
“Same description as the first round. Black clothes, hoods, white masks, black gloves. The wife woke up to a punch in the face in the early hours of Tuesday morning. The husband’s unconscious, and one of them punches her again while the other drags her husband to the foot of the bed, binds him to it—he’s gagged already.
“She tells them to take whatever they want while they’re restraining her to the bed. She saw them snap something under the husband’s nose to revive him. He’s struggling, one punches her again, tells the husband to sit still, be quiet or he’ll hit her again. Then the other brings in the kid—screaming, crying for his mother. It’s like a replay, Dallas. They lock the kid up and away—don’t gag him so his parents can hear him crying. The only variation? When they threaten rape, she tells them she’s pregnant, begs them not to hurt her little boy or the baby.”
“They hadn’t told many people,” Eve concluded. “The killers’ research missed that.”
“They didn’t hit her much after that, backed off the rape threats. But . . .” Baxter hissed. “Fuckers. The last thing they said to the husband before they dragged her out, locked her downstairs? One pulls out a knife, tells the husband if he doesn’t do what they need him to do, he’ll slit the little boy’s throat. It’ll be fast, won’t hurt much. But then, he’s going to cut the baby out of the wife. She’ll die slow, and the baby? They’ll just have to see.”
Eve walked to the window, stared out. “Any connection to Rogan, his wife, kid? To Karson?”
“None we’ve found so far. She didn’t know any of them. The kid did say that the one who watched him most read him a couple stories.”
“Not the one who talked about carving a fetus out of the woman.”
“No, the other one.”
“Softer touch. The other one likes the violence, the power of it. Still, they let them live. That’s not going to hold if they start on another family. That’s going to break, and soon. Trueheart?”
“I’ve got a couple, Lieutenant. I want to check the suburbs and into New Jersey.”
“Good thinking. Line them up, go run them down. Peabody, let’s go harass a few people on our list. Baxter, hold the scene for the sweepers, then start running down the rental vans.”
She started down the steps. “Do a geographic on the list. We’ll take the first couple between here and Central, or close to that. Then you head home, and so will I. We’ll try cutting down the list before we start interviewing tomorrow.”
Unless something broke, Eve thought, they were in for a long night, and a longer day after.
16
After interviews, briefings, paperwork and reports, Eve dragged into the house. And Summerset loomed.
“You’re quite late tonight. Nothing lasts forever, I suppose.”
She raked him with tired eyes. “You’ve lasted. Gotta be two or three hundred years by now.” She stripped off her coat, tossed it over the newel post, trudged her way upstairs.
When she walked into her office, Roarke and the cat walked out of his. “There she is.”
“What’s left of me.” As the cat rubbed against her legs, she shrugged out of her jacket. Even excellent material and a perfect fit could morph into the misery of a straitjacket after fifteen hours.
Roarke took the jacket before she tossed it at the handiest chair. “First things,” he said. He took a little case out of his pocket, flipped it open.
Eve scowled down at the tiny blue pain blockers. “Do you have stock in those things?”
“I ought to by this point. Let’s deal with the headache I can all but hear banging, and take five minutes.”
“I could use five minutes.” Though the headache wasn’t banging—it was more a muted thumping—she took the blocker, let him nudge her to the sofa. “You’ve been working, too.”
“I have, yes, after Summerset and I had a meal together, and he told me a bit more about his holiday.” As he spoke, Roarke shifted Eve, began to knead her shoulders. “He and Ivanna enjoyed the time together.”
“How am I supposed to ditch the headache if I’m thinking about Summerset sex?”
“I didn’t mention sex.”
“It’s implied.”
“And if you push that line, we’ll both have headaches. To add to these rocks in your shoulders.”
“Crap day. Pretty much crap day.” And wasn’t it just fine to lean back into those talented hands? “I ate. I pulled a Roarke and ordered in pizza for the team.”
“So you said when you texted you’d be late. Points for you.” He leaned forward, laid a kiss on the back of her neck. “Why don’t I get you a glass of wine, and you can fill me in.”
“I’d rather have a beer. I’d rather have coffee,” she added, “but you’d make those noises about needing a break from coffee. At least beer’s a cop drink.”
“I’m no cop, but I’ll have one with you. We’ve still some of Will Bannon’s brew. That’s definitely cop beer. How would that do you?”
“Down to the ground, thanks.”
Already the headache receded to an annoyed murmur. The rocks in her neck and shoulders had broken down into irritating pebbles.
The man had a way.
So when he walked back with the beer, sat, she curled into him, wrapped around him.
“Here now,” he soothed.
“It’s nothing wrong. It’s just . . . good to be home, and here. I can take the long, crap days, the multiple DBs in the long, crap days. I can even take feeling like I’m getting basically nowhere after the long, crap days because it’s good to be home, and here.”
She tipped her head back, kissed him, then shifted back to sit hip to hip. Took a swig from the pilsner he’d poured. “Beer’s good, too.”
“It is. And I’ll wager you’ve gotten beyond nowhere.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. And less like it after each notification. Three today seeing as Baxter notified Denby’s wife.”
“How is she?”
“Holding steady. They didn’t fuck her up as much as they did the first one. Broken nose, couple broken fingers. They mostly kept the pounding to her face, especially after she told them she was pregnant. They didn’t spend as much time on the Denbys. It may be Denby broke sooner than Rogan, or it may be they wanted to hit the loading in instead of the actual opening.”
“You lean toward the first,” Roarke commented.
“Yeah, not only because I think Denby broke sooner, but because they found out they had a pregnant woman on their hands. I think they moved up the timetable. They still accomplished what they wanted, but it meant adjustments, and a daylight B and E.”
She drank again. “I’m skipping around.”
She walked it back to the home invasion, moved through the destruction of Richie’s paintings in his studio.
“We’re still checking on rentals of black panel vans, but so far they’re all legit. Maybe they own one, or have access to one, or just boosted one for a couple hours and nobody noticed.”
“Will you have your witness at the loft work with Yancy or another police artist?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think we’ll get anything there. She couldn’t even give us skin color, height, nothing. She’s three floors up, not paying any attention. We’re lucky we got anything. Sweeper’s report lists twenty-two canvases destroyed from the loft—fifteen completed, the other seven partials. And nobody but dead Angelo knows how many more were completed, how many they took with them.”