“You’re banking rent from a sociopathic killer.”
“Ah well,” Roarke responded. “It happens.”
“Lucius Iler.”
“Iler Antiquities?”
“That’s the one. You know him?”
“I don’t, no, but I’ve purchased a thing or two from the company over the years.”
“Oldest son,” she began, and told him.
She broke off long enough to contact Officer Carmichael, currently stationed in a fancy tea shop across the street.
“He’s up there, sir. He came out a couple times on the terrace. Looked upset. He’s doing some day drinking. Last time he came out he had his ’link, talked a lot. Seemed to calm down some.”
“Keep on it.”
Roarke strolled back toward the building with her. “So, basically, Iler’s killed eighteen people, terrorized two families because his own parents didn’t give him enough hugs, his brother died saving others, the woman his brother hoped to marry didn’t grieve for the rest of her life.”
“Add in an addiction to risk and gambling, greed, and a partner who strokes his twisted resentments, yeah. That’s about it.”
The hem of Roarke’s coat snapped in the March wind; his hair streamed in it. “It’ll be a pleasure to watch you take them both down, and to play a part in it. Why is Peabody on her way to California today?”
“Nadine. She got a spot on Angela Knight’s freaking Oscar week show out there, and had to bump everything up.”
“Was this before or after you found Iler?”
“After. I don’t want to talk about it,” Eve stated. “And don’t even think about kissing me when I’ve got two pair of cops’ eyes on this building.”
“I doubt they can read my thoughts at this distance.”
“Cops’ eyes,” she repeated, and stood for a moment longer in the noise and the wind.
“What would you like me to do, as your Peabody?”
“The first thing I’m going to say is I don’t know what you pay Rhoda, but she should get a big, fat bonus.”
“Consider it done.”
“Depending on how things go, I need Baxter and Trueheart to get back to the interviews—focusing on military backgrounds, but not exclusively. He could be using fake ID and data. I’ll need to take some interviews to get it done. While I am, I need you to start full-spread runs on the names I’ve culled out from the terrorist attack.”
“I can do that.”
“He may or may not go by the same name now, but you should look for the shaky. Maybe a questionable psych eval, particularly after the attack. Medical discharges, dishonorables.”
“Training in explosives?”
“Possible. Just as possible he developed those skills and interest after the attack. If he was married—doubtful, but a maybe—he’s divorced. If he’s employed, it’s in security, or that’s my most probable. He could be a cop, goddamn it, but if he went there, he’s former because this takes too much time—plus, the second hit came too hard up on the first. Too much leave time for a cop unless he’s pulled a sick-out or hardship leave. Don’t discount the cop angle just because it pisses me off.”
“I won’t. You’ve dismissed the tactic of taking Iler in, sweating it out of him?”
“I still may. Let’s see what we get from the ID shots and the runs first.”
She went back and found a silver-haired man on the desk.
“Lieutenant, sir, Rhoda’s back in her office with your detectives. No one has come in to visit Mr. Iler.”
“Good.”
In the office Rhoda sat studying the screen while Baxter handled the programming, one ID shot at a time. She started to rise when Eve and Roarke came in, but Roarke gestured her down.
“Take your time,” Baxter told her. “You see a lot of faces on any given day. Remember if anyone seems a little familiar, we’ll earmark it, come back to it.”
“Not that one,” she said. Baxter moved to the next.
“Visitors’ log?” Roarke asked.
“I’m cross-checking on the portable.” Trueheart sat behind the desk. “Not just exact names, but any that use the same initials, same first or last.”
“Keep at it,” Eve ordered, then turned to Rhoda. “He may have changed hair style, color. Grown a beard, shaved one off.”
At the end of the first long round, Rhoda picked out five possibles.
“I’m worried I’ve pulled those out because they remind me of someone else.”
“Take a break,” Eve told her.
“Oh, but I—”
“You’ll come back to it fresher if you take a couple minutes. Baxter, dispense some of the smooth charm and coffee for Rhoda. Hold the sexual prowess.”
“Sometimes it just ekes out. How do you take your coffee, Remarkable Rhoda?”
“Black, thanks. When you have real, why add to it?”
“My kind of woman. You aren’t married, are you?”
“Not at the moment. You’re all trying to settle me down, and I appreciate it. Knowing I’ve had almost daily contact with one of the men who’s done all of this?” She accepted the coffee, drank. “It’s unnerving.”
“Your nerves look steady to me.” Eve glanced at Roarke. He sat, working on his PPC. Already running the five possibles, she thought.
He made an excellent Peabody.
“Let me see them again. Not him,” Rhoda said as the first displayed. “I realize now he looks a little like—and this is embarrassing—Scott Trevor from Galaxy Force.”
“You watch Galaxy Force?” Baxter shot a finger at Rhoda.
“Addicted.”
“We need to have drinks and talk. And you’re right. He could be Scott Trevor’s older cousin. How about this one?”
She studied, closed her eyes, refocused. “Could we hold that one, come back to it? I’m just not sure.”
“No problem.” Baxter switched to the next.
“There’s just something . . .” She closed her eyes again, sat quietly, then opened. “Oh. Oh, I see. He’s shaved his hair. He’s shaved his head, and there’s something, else, something, I’m not—his nose. His nose is thinner now. Thin and straight—it looks as if it’s been broken and set poorly in this picture. He usually wears sunshades, even when he comes in after dark, almost always wears them. That’s Mr. Nordon. Oliver Nordon. He visits Mr. Iler, most often in the evening so I wouldn’t see him then, but I’ve seen his name on the log. And I’ve cleared him myself when he comes during the day. Mr. Nordon.”
“Got it,” Trueheart said. “Got him. Sergeant Oliver Silverman, under Captain Iler in Seoul.”
“Sergeant Oliver Silverman,” Roarke continued, “age thirty-two at the time of the attack. Wounded therein—broken leg, severe burns on torso, arms. Ah, shrapnel damaged his genitals, resulting in partial amputation and the fitting of a prosthetics.”
“Youch,” Baxter mumbled.
“Both medical and psychiatric evaluations determined Silverman should be honorably discharged.”
“Something else there. If he’d wanted to stay in, they’d have found a place for him unless they deemed him unfit. Wounded warrior.”
Roarke nodded at Eve. “I can look deeper.”
“Later. Do you have a current ID shot of Silverman?”
“Went off the grid after discharge.”
“A lot do, Lieutenant,” Trueheart said. “Plenty of sidewalk sleepers are vets.”
“Yeah. But that’s no sidewalk sleeper. Run Nordon,” she told Roarke.
“I am. Oliver Nordon, age thirty-six, freelance security consultant, residential and commercial.” He glanced at Eve. “Good call, Lieutenant.”
“Give me an address.”
“It’s 563 West Sixty-Third.”
“Baxter, warrants for Iler and Silverman/Nordon. Search and seizures on both locations. Use Reo, she’s fast. Trueheart, I want cops—team of four—sitting on Silverman’s address five minutes ago. In body armor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two more uniforms to this location,” she added. She snapped into the communicator already in her hand. “Feeney, eyes and ears, 563 West Sixty-Third. Apartment number?” she asked Roarke.
He didn’t look up from his PPC. “No. Townhome, three stories.”
“You catch that?”
“I ain’t deaf,” Feeney said.
“Suspect data coming to you . . .”
“Now,” Roarke finished.
“He’ll be armed, Feeney, and he’s fucking dangerous. Full body armor for your team. I’m tagging Salazar. He’ll have explosives.”
“I’ll tap her.”
“Warrants are in the works, uniforms en route to cover. Bomb sniffers, Feeney. Nobody takes the door until the sniffers clear it. And I want residences and businesses on both sides of the target location evacuated. Baxter, status!”
“Reo’s pushing it.”
She snatched the ’link from his hand. “Push faster, harder.” Tossed it back to him. “We’ll do the take down here then be at your location.”
She clicked off, narrowed her eyes at the image on-screen.
“Here’s how it’s going to go,” she said, then outlined the two-pronged op.
“She’s marvelous,” Rhoda murmured.
Roarke merely smiled. “Isn’t she?”
“Warrants coming through. Baxter, Trueheart, take your positions. Carmichael, Shelby, you copy?”
“Roger that.”
“Roarke, with me. You can take the block off the fiftieth floor, Rhoda,” Eve told her when they reached the elevators. “Just this car for now.”
“Good luck,” Rhoda called out as the doors shut.