Apprentice in Death (13 page)

“Not even close.” Eve studied the first document on screen. “It's their hit list. Just initials, not full names, but there's BM, KR—Michaelson, Russo—there's MB—and I'm betting on Marta Beck, Michaelson's office manager, there's BF, that's going to be Fine, the driver who hit the second wife. One of these others—AE, JR, and MJ—is likely the lawyer we haven't identified. And two others. Two down, five to go.”

“There's a second page to this document.” Roarke ordered it on screen.

“Zach Stuben—that's her brother. Lincoln Stuben, her stepfather. Christ, her mother's on here. Rene Hutchins, Thomas Greenburg, Lynda Track—we need to identify them. And this one with initials. HCHS.”

“It's her high school—I'm sure of it, as I found this document as well.” Roarke called up a blueprint of Hillary Clinton High School. “Certain classrooms, certain areas were highlighted, egresses marked.”

“Jesus, Jesus. She plans to hit her school.”

“And already has her nest chosen. Closer this time than the other two attacks, but still an appreciable distance.”

Eve looked at the next image. “The roof of her father's apartment building. She has these hidden here because this isn't her father's agenda. It's hers. When they finish his mission, she can begin her own. How hard did you have to look to find this?”

“A bit of work, but more to the point, I likely wouldn't have found it if I hadn't been specifically looking for it. It was shielded under a perfectly harmless school report on George Washington.”

Eve paced. “Okay, let's get back. We need to access Mackie's apartment. It's likely he's got cams set up, is monitoring anyone going in or out of the building, certainly his own space.”

“I can take care of that.”

“Counting on it. We need to get in, see who's next. When and where. They may have moved straight to the next nest, and there are three
people on his agenda we haven't ID'd. And we have to ID the unknowns on her list.”

“There's more on hers. She's listed her kills. Animals,” he said quickly. “The type, the place, the distance, the weapon, the date, the time. It appears her father's taken her hunting—illegally very often—into Montana, Wyoming, Alaska, the Dakotas, even into Mexico, Canada. She's listed over two dozen kills in the last seven months.”

“Copy the file to my units. I'll have EDD pick this up, and hers. Hell, all of them, and now. She'll have a unit at her father's place. We need to get into that. She wouldn't have needed to be so careful on his agenda there, so maybe we'll have names.”

Eve shoved a hand through her hair. “I wonder if Mackie knows what kind of monster he's created. And if he knows, does he care?”

Eve tagged Peabody, reeled off the names from Willow's list. “These people are connected to the suspects, most likely the female. Nail them down, get contact information.”

She clicked off, turned to Roarke. “If Mackie's monitoring the security cams in the apartment remotely, jamming them will tip him.”

As they walked, Roarke simply patted her shoulder and contacted Feeney. Though they launched into e-speak that made her head bang, Eve understood enough to interpret.

“You—or Feeney—can override the cam and replay a loop.”

“Exactly so. If Mackie's monitoring closely, it won't fool him for long, so we'll want to time it well.”

“He could've rigged the door, right? He's a cop, he'd think of details. Rig the door to let him know when anyone goes in, so—”

“Darling Eve, this is hardly my first B and E. In fact, how happy am I it's not even my first of the day. Have a little faith.”

The snapping wind had keened to a sharp edge. She caught the scent
of soy dogs and chestnuts from a cart—a puff of winter-fragrant smoke. Someone's vehicle alarm went off in annoying, rapid beeps as a couple of teenage girls ran by giggling like lunatics.

Roarke spoke easily to Feeney.

“Override in ten,” Feeney announced.

“Copy that. Take the door,” Eve told Roarke. “Unlikely he's got a way to monitor my master, but why take the chance?”

“And go,” Feeney said.

They went to the entrance and, with Roarke's clever hands, were smoothly inside in under six seconds.

“No lobby cams, but the standard in the elevator.”

“We take the stairs.” Eve started up.

A decent enough place, she thought. Nothing close to the ex-wife's duplex, but decent. She noticed sporadic soundproofing, catching snippets of sound from apartments as they moved up.

But on Mackie's floor all held quiet.

“He bumped up his security.”

Roarke nodded as they stood out of range of the camera over his apartment door. “I've got this one.”

He took a device from his pocket, keyed in something, studied the readout, added more code. “Feed's looped. Let's see what other tricks he has for us.”

When they approached the door, Roarke used the same device to scan the locks, the security swipe. “Clever,” he murmured. “I'm reading a monitoring system, so you were right to be cautious here. No explosives, so that's a bonus, isn't it? Let me just . . . Aye, that's it. Each in its time. Yes, clever enough. But . . . There you are. Hang on to this, will you?”

He handed Eve the device that hummed quietly in her hand while he took out his tools.

She watched him slip around a trio of police locks like they were thumb bolts.

Eve handed the device back to him, drew her weapon. “No explosives, good. But remember that old vid we watched a couple weeks ago? The guy booby-trapped his place. Had a big-ass shotgun rigged to go off if the door opened?”

“
Classic
vid,” he corrected, “but I do remember, yes. So why don't we . . .”

They stepped to either side of the door. Eve turned the knob, dropped low, shoved the door open from the bottom.

No booby trap, no trip wires, no internal cameras.

And very little else.

She stepped into a living area that held one aging and sagging sofa.

“You reading this, Feeney?” She turned a circle to give him the three-sixty with her lapel recorder.

“Yeah, shit.”

“We'll clear it anyway.”

He'd left his bed, stripped to the mattress. A second bedroom held nothing but accumulated dust and some empty clothes hangers.

“They left this place weeks ago. Lowenbaum, stand down. They're not coming back here. Peabody, call in the sweepers. They can go over the place, for form's sake.”

To release a bubble of frustration, she kicked the sofa.

“Copy that, sir,” Peabody said. “I can give you those names.”

“Give.”

“Rene Hutchins, the school psychologist at the female suspect's high school. Thomas Greenburg, principal at the same school. Lynda Track works with Zoe Younger—and is Lincoln Stuben's sister.”

“Have them contacted, interviewed. Assign protective details.”

“On it.”

“You don't believe they're in immediate danger,” Roarke said.

“No. One mission at a time.” Eve hissed out a breath. “Rounds out her hit list with two authority figures from her school and her stepfather's sister—who's likely friends with her mother.”

She took a turn, put the second hit list aside for now, dealt with what was more immediate—the three unknown people on the first list.

“He figured we'd get here sooner or later. He prepared for that. Left the furniture that was too big and too old to bother with. Carmichael, Santiago, start knocking on doors here. Let's see if anyone can tell us when he booked.”

She resisted, barely, kicking the sofa again. “Okay, all right. No more pussyfooting around. Feeney, will you contact the commander, give him the status? We're going full release on the IDs. I'm available for a media conference in an hour.”

“Better you than me, kid.”

“Lowenbaum, be available for same.” She yanked out her 'link, started that ball rolling. “Nadine.”

“Dallas. I've been trying to reach you all damn day. Everything's pushed to—”

“Where are you?”

“What? I just got home, but—”

“I'm coming to you. Which home?”

“My new place. My only place now. What—”

“No cameras. I'm on my way.”

Roarke studied her cold, angry eyes. “Yanking the cork out of the bottle, are we?”

“That's right.”

“What do you need from me?”

“Right now? I could use a ride.”

In a fraction of the time she could have commandeered a police
vehicle, she was sliding behind the wheel of a husky all-terrain. Peabody dropped in beside her.

“It's big and warm.”

“It's temporary. Plug in Nadine's address. I don't know where the hell it is.”

“Oh, it's great. She's still decorating it, but I heard it's already looking mag, and—”

“I don't care what it looks like.”

“Right.” Peabody sat back as the comp cued Eve on direction. “You want Nadine to break the story before you talk to the general media.”

“I want her to fucking explode it. That'll cut down on the time I have to stand there giving statements, answering stupid questions. More, she'll dig in. There'll be stories and data about the suspects, about the victims. We have targets as yet unidentified, as yet unprotected. A good chance they'll come to us after this. We need more background on the dead wife.”

“I did more digging while we were waiting. Birth family, education, employment. Nothing stands out. Pretty stable family, grew up in Westchester, no trouble in school, two years of college, general studies. Worked in retail. Moved to Brooklyn, roomed with a couple of girlfriends. switched jobs—still retail. Married Mackie, moved again, changed jobs again. Last employment Boomer's, clothing store on East Fifty-Seventh.”

“She went to the doctor's, must've been heading back to work after the appointment. I want to talk to Marta Beck, find out what went on that day at the appointment. Let's find out the name of her supervisor at work. Mackie blamed the doctor, and Beck's initials are on the hit list, so he sees her as part of it.”

“Beck isn't a medical. She's administration.”

“Exactly. Beck said they often ran behind with appointment times.”

“Ever been to a doctor that doesn't?”

“I try to avoid them. So maybe her appointment ran late, and she's rushing—why else does a sane person run out into the street? If she was rushing back to work, he might target her supervisor, or someone at her job. Get me names.”

“Got that. Oh, you can park in the underground here, there's a visitors level.”

“We're not visitors.”

The building was sharp and sleek and silver. Not shiny and bright, but aged in a way to lend it character and dignity. She pulled straight up to the lavish front entrance, nosing in behind a limo disgorging a woman inside a massive fur coat carrying a tiny dog—also wearing a fur coat over his skinny dog body.

The doorman hustled to the lady with the dog, took a safari's worth of shopping bags from the driver. The doorman glanced toward Eve as she pushed out of the A-T, started to speak.

He stopped, gave a brisk nod as he juggled bags and hustled back to the door. “Lieutenant Dallas, I'll be right with you.”

“I don't need you,” she said, beating the lady and dog to the door, striding straight through.

“Charlie,” the woman said, “will you just have everything sent up? Mimi is exhausted.”

“Absolutely, Ms. Mannery. Lieutenant.”

“Nadine Furst, expecting me. Leave my vehicle where it is.”

Eve walked away from him, then realized she didn't have a clue.

Ground level soared toward vaulted ceilings where vines twined around white beams. Light sparkled on white marble floors from huge chandeliers fashioned from twists of that aged silver and balls of rich blue glass.

At a scan she spotted a bank, three boutiques, restaurants, a bakery and a gourmet food mart, a business center.

“Security will clear you right up.” Charlie the doorman, still buried
in shopping bags, hurried up to her. “Ms. Furst's penthouse can be accessed from elevator bank C—any car.”

Eve headed to C, past a translucent wall of falling water that fell musically into a narrow pool banked with lush red flowers.

Eve stepped into the elevator, scowled when a disembodied voice proclaimed:
Two occupants cleared for Penthouse A. Please enjoy your visit and the rest of your day.

“Yeah, because it's been a fucking day at the beach so far.”

“We know where they're not, so that's something,” Peabody muttered as she worked on her PPC. “Okay, got the assistant manager at Boomer's, one Alyce Ellison.”

“Have her brought in,” Eve snapped as the elevator doors open. “I want her in protective custody now.”

“Who?” Nadine demanded, standing in a wide foyer flanked by matching pedestal tables holding blue orchids.

Eve had said no cameras, but as usual, Nadine Furst stood camera ready in a sharp suit of bold red, her streaky blond hair swept back from her foxy face. Eyes of clever green held Eve's gaze.

“Now, Peabody.”

Behind Nadine the living area spread—sparcely furnished as yet, with glossy floors the color of the roasted chestnuts that had scented the street. A wall of windows opened the living space to a wide terrace, and a spectacular view of the city.

“I don't have much time,” Eve began.

“Nice to see you, too.”

“Nadine.”

“Not much time, understood, but since you've been dodging me all day, I'd like a little room.”

“Not dodging you. Dodging media period, and for a reason. I'm here now because I'm going to be part of a media conference in about an hour. I don't have much room to give.”

“Got room for coffee while we do this?”

“God, yes.”

“Follow me.”

Nadine moved briskly—Eve noticed she wore house skids with the suit—across the living space, through a dining area with a long, slick black table centered with a big glass basket in orchid blue and surrounded by black chairs with blue seat cushions. Into a silver-and-white kitchen, complete with breakfast nook in a window alcove and a massive center island.

“You don't even cook.”

“I can if I have to, and why not have a fabulous space for catering? It so happens I have Dallas blend stocked.”

“What blend?”

“Don't you even know what you drink?” Nadine asked as she slid open a black panel to an AutoChef.

“Roarke's coffee.”

“Which has several blends. Yours is Dallas.”

“Huh. Peabody, can you use that wall screen?”

“Can do.”

“Put up the ID photos while we get this coffee.”

Nadine's fingers paused on the controls of the AutoChef. “You've ID'd the shooters?”

“Coffee, program coffee,” Eve ordered, now fairly desperate for a hit. “Former Tactical Officer Reginald Mackie and his daughter, Willow Mackie, age fifteen.”

“Holy shit.” Nadine yanked open a drawer for a notebook, a recorder.

“No recorder, not yet. Suspects are still at large.”

Not one to stand on ceremony where coffee was concerned, Eve opened the AC herself when it signaled, took out a white mug of black coffee.

“They've vacated Mackie's known residence. The minor suspect's mother, stepfather, and half brother are in protective custody.”

“How did you ID the suspects?”

“Good police work. Look, you'll get what I can give you now; you'll get what I can give generally at the media conference.”

Eve gulped down coffee, felt her system revive. And paced. “Pictures on screen, Peabody.” Nadine passed Peabody a coffee regular. “You can take notes, Nadine, but no recordings until the official conference.”

Quickly, succinctly, Eve outlined what she could, still pacing, still gulping coffee.

“You believe Willow Mackie is a willing participant in the killings.”

“Here's some off-the-record until I clear it.” Eve waited for Nadine's nod. “I think she's the shooter, and I believe—bullshit,” she corrected. “I
know
she has a secondary hit list of her own. For whatever reason, his own physical or emotional state, or the fact he's a twisted, vengeful lunatic, I think Mackie's given his daughter the green.”

“Why the unconnected strikes—two people at the ice rink, four at Times Square? Cover?”

“It looks that way.” But Eve thought it was more, even more callous than that. “We believe the suspects have additional targets, and will move on them quickly. If they follow pattern, they'll choose a public area, somewhere the target routinely goes or lives or works. And they will take more lives.”