Survivor in Death

9

EVE WALKED INTO HER OWN HOME AS IF SHE were walking into an op. “No one comes in, no one goes out,” she snapped to Summerset, “without my clearance. Savvy?”

“Certainly.”

“Where's the kid?”

“In the game room with Officer Trueheart.” Summerset hitched back the cuff of his black jacket to reveal a wrist unit. Not a time piece, Eve noted, but a monitor. On it, she saw Trueheart and Nixie battling it out on one of Roarke's classic pinball machines.

“I took the precaution of pinning a homer on her sweater,” he added. “If she moves from one location to another, it signals.”

Despite herself, Eve was impressed. “Sweet.”

“They will not lay a hand on that child.”

She looked at him. He'd lost a child, a daughter, not that much older, really, than this one. Whatever else she thought of him, she understood he would stand as Nixie's shield.

“No, they won't. Roarke?”

“He's here. In his private office.”

“Right.” The office where he kept his unregistered-and therefore illegal-equipment. However much she trustedPeabody, there were lines. “Head up, will you,” she said toPeabody. “Give Baxter the current. I'm going to update Roarke, then we'll conference. My office.”

As her partner started up the steps, Eve moved out of the foyer and to the elevator. There she paused. “I need them alive,” she said to Summerset. “Best-case scenario.”

“One of them alive would do.”

She turned back. “She will be protected. Extreme measures, including termination, will be employed if necessary. But consider this before you get your juices up. Two men grabbed Meredith Newman off the street-and one to drive, so that makes three. There may be more. I don't get one healthy, that I can sweat, she may never be safe. The more of them I get healthy, the better chance I have to get them all. To get the why. Without the why, she may never be safe. And she'll never know. You don't know the why, you don't always heal.”

Though his face remained unreadable, Summerset nodded. “You're quite right, Lieutenant.”

She stepped into the elevator, ordered Roarke's private office.

He knew when she came through the gates, and that she'd come up before much longer. So he closed the file, went back to evaluating his security.

He didn't think it was appropriate right at the moment to tell her one of the tasks he'd chosen for the unregisters was indepth-and technically illegal-background checks on all of Nixie's family connections.

The grandmother was out. She'd had a few misdemeaner illegals charges, any number of cohabs, and had a part-time licensed companion standing.

Perhaps the moral judgment was ironic as he was currently an official guardian for the child and had done worse. Considerably worse.

But he was making it nonetheless. He wouldn't see a child turned over to a woman of that sort. She deserved better.

He'd found Grant Swisher's biological father. It had taken a bit of time, but the moral judgment there had come swiftly.

The man was rarely employed, had done a short stint for petty theft, and another for jacking vehicles.

The step-sister looked more promising. She was married, a corporate lawyer out ofPhiladelphia. Childless. No criminal on record, and financially solvent. She'd been married, to another lawyer, for seven years.

The child could have a home with her, temporarily, even permanently should it become necessary. A good home, he thought, with someone who'd known her parents, who felt some connection.

He sat back, tipped back in the chair. It was none of his business. Not a bit of it.

The hell it wasn't. He was responsible for that child now, whether he'd chosen to be or not. Whether he wanted to be or not.

He had stood outside her bedroom, had seen what had nearly been done to her.

He had stood outside her brother's room, had seen what had been done. A young boy's blood drying to rust on the sheets, the walls.

Why was it that seeing it made him see his own? He didn't think of those days, or so rarely it didn't count. He wasn't-wouldn't be- haunted by nightmares as Eve was. He was done with those days, and what had been.

But he thought of them now, had thought of them too many times since he'd been inside the Swisher home.

He remembered seeing his own blood. Coming to, barely. Obscene pain swimming through him as he stared at his own blood on the filthy ground of the alley after his father had beaten him half to death.

More than half, come to that.

Had he meant to kill him? Why hadn't he ever wondered that before? He'd killed before.

Roarke looked at the photo of his mother, of himself as a baby. Such a young, pretty face she'd had, he thought. Even bruised by the bastard's fists, she'd had a pretty face.

Until Patrick Roarke had smashed it, until he'd murdered her with his own hands and tossed her in the river like sewage. And now her son couldn't remember her. He'd never remember her voice, or her scent. And there was nothing to be done about it.

She'd wanted him, this pretty girl with the bruised face. She'd died because she'd wanted to give her son family.

Those few years later, had Patrick Roarke, God rot him, meant to leave his own son for dead, or had he simply used his fists and feet as usual?

A lesson for you, boy-o. Life's full of hard lessons.

Roarke dragged his hands through his hair, pressed them to his temples. Christ, he could hear the cocksucker's voice, and that would never do. He wanted a drink, and nearly rose to pour himself a whiskey, just to take off the edge.

But that was a weakness-drinking because you wanted to blunt the edge. Hadn't he proved every day, every bloody day of the life he'd been given that he wouldn't be weak?

He hadn't died in that alley, as poor young Coyle had died in his bed. He'd lived, because Summerset had found him, had cared enough to take a broken boy in-a nasty little son of a bitch, as well.

He'd taken him in, and tended him. And given him a home.

In a human world, even one of murder and blood, didn't an innocent girl like Nixie Swisher deserve that much? Deserve more than he'd been given?

He'd help her get it, for her sake-and for his own. Before his father's voice got too loud in his head.

He didn't get the whiskey. Instead he pushed aside the memories, the questions, and as much of the sickness of heart as he could manage, and waited for his wife to step into the room.

The room was full of light, the wide windows uncovered. She knew no surveillance device could penetrate the privacy screens on them. Unless he'd built them himself, she thought. Then he'd have built better screens.

At the wide black U of the control console, he sat, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up, the silk of his hair tied back with a cord.

Work mode.

The console always looked a bit futuristic to her, just as the man who piloted it could remind her of a pirate at the helm of a spaceship.

Lights flashed on that glossy black like jewels as he worked the controls, manually, and by voice.

On the wall screens were different areas of his domain, and the various computer responses gave brisk reports.

“Lieutenant.”

“I'm sorry about this. I'm sorry about what I may be bringing here.”

He stopped what he was doing. “Pause operations. You're upset,” he said, as coolly as he'd spoken to the equipment. “So I'll forgive that insulting remark.”

“Roarke-”

“Eve.” He rose, crossed the wide black floor toward her. “Are we a unit, you and I?”

“Doesn't seem to be any way around it.”

“Or through it.” He took her hands and the contact steadied him. “Or under it, over it. Don't apologize to me for doing what you felt was right for that child.”

“I could've taken her to a safe house. I second-guessed myself on that half a dozen times today. If I had, Newman would know some of the locations. If they get them out of her… hell, not if, when. There are cops scrambling right now to move people out of what should be secure locations. Just in case.”

Something flickered in his eyes. “A minute.” He moved back, fast, to the console, switched on a 'link. “Dochas,” he snapped into it. “Code Red, immediate and until further notice.”

“Oh Christ.”

“It's handled,” he said, turning from the 'link. “I have built-in procedures for just this sort of thing. It's unlikely they'll believe you would take her there-with so many others. Less likely yet they can find it. But it's handled. Just as this is.”

He stepped back to her, nodded toward the screens. “I have every inch of the wall and gate secured.”

“A teenager once got over using a homemade jammer.”

The fact that he looked momentarily perturbed by the memory lightened her load. “Jamie is no ordinary teenager. Nor was he able to get through the secondaries. And I've upgraded since then. Believe me, Eve, they won't get in.”

“I do believe you.” Still she paced to the window, to look out, to see the walls for herself. “Newman doesn't know I brought the kid here. Went over her on it, and didn't tell her, mostly because she irritated me. Just a little slap. My balls are bigger than your balls kind of thing. Petty.”

“Being petty-and I do love that about you-has added another layer of protection over Nixie.”

“Dumb luck. But why argue with dumb luck? I've had her supervisor picked up, taken into protective. Had all the paperwork buried.” She huffed out a breath. “I've got Mira locked down, too, just in case her involvement leaks. She's not happy with me.”

“Her safety's more important than her happiness.”

“Put surveillance onPeabody 's place. She's mine, so they may go for her.”

“She and McNab can stay here.”

“One big, happy family. No. We deviate from routine too much, they'll know we're waiting for them to make a move.”

“Eve. You and I both know they're unlikely to move on this house tonight, even if they believe the child is here. They're careful, they're organized. They're controlled. They would have to obtain or simulate my system. Believe me when I say that alone would take them weeks. Then they'd have to find the chinks-of which there are none-they'd have to practice. If you haven't run a probability on that, as I have, I'd be very surprised.”

“A little over twelve percent.” She turned to him, framed now by the wide, wide glass. “But we don't take chances.”

“And the probability they'll try for you?” He lifted his eyebrows when she said nothing, when he saw the faint irritation on her face. “Ninety-six.”

“You're right behind me, pal, at ninety-one.”

“Bloody annoying to have you slip by me by five percent. You were working up to asking me-and I use that verb tongue in cheek-to lock myself down in here. Are we going to argue about that so that I have to throw that five percent probability in your face?”

Thoughtfully, she rocked back and forth on her heels. “I had a pretty good argument worked out.”

“Why don't you save it for another time?”

“I can do that.”

The in-house 'link signalled. “This is Roarke,” he said from where he stood, his attention still on Eve.

“As per her instructions, I'm informing the lieutenant that Captain Feeney and Detective McNab are requesting entrance at the gate.”

“You verify ID visually and by voice print?” she asked Summerset.

“Of course.”

“They're cleared to come through. I want to go talk to my team,” she said to Roarke. “Okay if that includes you?”

“I wouldn't have it any other way. Give me a couple of minutes to finish in here. I'll be along.”

She walked to the elevator, stood looking at the door when it opened at her command. “Roarke? The thing is about probabilities, they don't always factor in every element. They can't fully and successfully analyze every human emotion. The computer doesn't factor in that if someone got to you, it would take me down. If they used you, bargained your life, there isn't much I wouldn't do to get you back. So you factor that in, and I figure you've cut ahead of me on the probability scale.”

She entered the elevator quickly, closed the door before he could respond.

Eve let them settle in first, go through the chatter, the greed for food. She even ignored the cooing flirtation between her partner and EDD ace Ian McNab, the recent cohabs.

The fact was, Peabody 's color had been off since they'd hauled up the steps to interview Minnie. The cooing, however unseemly, had her pinked up again.

And while they settled, Eve organized the conference in her head.

“Okay, boys and girls.” She remained standing. She handled such meetings better on her feet. “If everyone's had their afternoon snack, maybe we can get started.”

“Uptown grub.” McNab scooped up the last of leftover apple pie.

His skinny frame was festooned-Eve figured that was the word for it-in a neon orange skin-tank with sizzling blue pants that had some sort of silver clamps running up the outside of each leg. The over shirt was a headache of dots, outdone only by the glowing checks covering his airboots.

His shining blond hair was pulled back from his thin, pretty face. The better to show off the trio of orange and blue coils adorning each ear.

“I'm glad you approve, Detective. Now maybe you can give your report. Unless, of course, you'd like seconds.”

Sarcasm, even delivered in mild tones, could hit like a hammer. He swallowed the last of the pie quickly. “No, sir. Our team has reviewed and completed search-and-scans on all 'links, all d and c's owned or used by any and all of the vies, and the survivor. We found no transmissions on the 'links other than ordinary communications from and to the Swishers and their domestic. While there were numerous transmissions over the last thirty days, they check. Friends, clients, each other, personal and business transmissions. A list of all, with transcription, is now on disc for your file.”

“Thirty days?”

“The Swishers cleared their 'links every thirty. That's common. We're digging in, and will retrieve the deleted transmissions prior to the thirty. As to the data centers, the files are pretty much what you'd expect.”

“What would I expect, Detective?”

He was warming up, she could see, losing the stiffness her reprimand had caused. He slouched more comfortably in his chair and began to gesture as he spoke. “You know, Dallas, games, to-do lists, meal planning, appointments, birthday reminders. Family stuff, school stuff, upcoming vacation data. Got case files from each of the adult's business units, comments, reports, financials. Nothing pops out. If they had trouble, or suspected they might have trouble, they didn't make a record of it. They didn't discuss it with anyone via 'link.”

He glanced toward the murder board, the death photos, and his eyes-a misty green-hardened. “I've been spending a lot of time with that family the last few days. My opinion-from their electronic records and transmissions-they didn't have a clue.”

She nodded, shifted to Feeney. Beside the fashionable McNab, he looked blessedly dull. “Security.”

“Bypassed and shut down. Remote and at site. Diagnostic scan couldn't locate the source, but when we took the system apart we found microscopic particles-fiber-optic traces. They hooked in-portable code breaker, most likely. Had to be prime equipment to read the code, to get through the failsafes without tripping any alarm. Equipment and operator had to be prime to do it in the time frame we're working with. We're looking for at least one suspect who has a superior knowledge of and skill with electronics, and the equipment to match.”

Since Feeney looked to him for confirmation, Roarke nodded. “Their equipment would have had to have been small, possibly palm-sized. From your description, Lieutenant, of the men seen walking away from the location of the murders.”

“They each had a bag, but no,” she confirmed, “nothing large.”

“Your ordinary, even better-than-average, B and E man isn't likely to have access to a palm-sized breaker in the range capable of reading that system, certainly not at that speed. As the system showed no signs of tampering, the men you're looking for probably didn't have the burglary skills to go manual.”

“Meaning they had to rely on equipment, not…” She lifted her hands, wiggled her fingers. And made him smile.

“Exactly. The equipment would also have to be tailored specifically for that system. The time frame means it was tailored prior to their arrival.”

“Confirming they knew the system, knew what they'd find, and had studied it either by duplicating or purchasing the same system, or spending time on site.”

“The only way they could have studied it on site thoroughly enough to have pulled this off means they had considerable time-hours- both inside the house and outside, with no one questioning them.”

Eve pursed her lips at Roarke. “Hours?”

“It's a solid system, Dallas,” Feeney commented. “They didn't get through by eyeballing it.”

“Then it's unlikely they ran suns with the Swisher's actual system. Peabody, you've done a search of purchases of that security system?”

“Yes, sir, and it's a whale of a list. I've started on it, dividing it into city, out of city, out of state, out of country, and off planet. I've then eliminated purchases made before the Swishers obtained their system. I've started runs on purchases in city, and have eliminated approximately another six percent.”

“By what process?”

“Well, by separating out single female purchasers and married with family, then checking those to determine if they had any maintenance and repair on the system since the purchase date. Profile indicates the killers are not family men, and the probability run gave me in the nineties that this process was the most efficient. At this time.”

“Have you run those systems purchased that were not installed by the company?”

Peabodyopened her mouth, then closed it long enough to clear her throat. “No, sir. I'll do so.”

“Split the list between all members of this team. Probability or not, do not-at this time-eliminate families or single females. Maybe one of them has a girlfriend, or a female accomplice. Maybe he's a licensed installer. Maybe he's just the handy neighbor who says, 'Hey, I'll take care of that for you and save you some dough.' These are home security systems, but there's no law saying a business couldn't purchase one. Let's get on this.”

She leaned back against her desk, remembered the coffee she'd poured before she'd begun. She picked it up, drank it lukewarm. “Baxter. Client lists.”

“Both the Swishers had a good thing going. Successful in their professions. Family law firm was busy, and Swisher had a good win rate. His caseload weighs heavy on protection of children's rights, custody suits, divorce, while his partner takes more of the straight abuse, palimony, cohab dissolutions, and competency stuff. But they both have a mix, and both have a good percentage of pro bono work.”

He cocked his ankle onto his knee, brushed the line of the pants of his well-cut suit smooth. “She was no slouch either. Lots of referrals. Liked to do families or couples, but didn't turn away the individual. She would also work on a sliding scale, ratio of fee to income. Not just fatties,” he added. “Dug into various eating disorders, health conditions. Consulted with her client's health care provider, and made house calls.”

“House calls?”

“She'd visit the client's home and workplace. Do a study on their lifestyle, recommend changes, not just in eating habits, but in exercise, entertainment, stress levels, the works. That kind of treatment didn't come cheap, but like I said, she had a lot of referrals. Satisfied customers. You got your dissatisfied, too, both sides.”

“Do a cross-check. See how many times their clients crossed. Do another, see which cases Swisher's firm worked on where Meredith Newman was listed as GPS rep. It could be interesting data. Trueheart.”

“Sir.” Long and lanky, and almost tenderly young in his uniform, he came to attention.

“You've been spending time with the witness.”

“She's a nice kid, Lieutenant.”

“Any further data from her?”

“Sir, she doesn't talk much about it. She's broken down a couple of times. Not hysterical, just sits down and cries. I'm trying to keep her busy. She seems comfortable with me, and with Summerset, though she asks about you.”

“Asks what?”

“When you're coming back, what you're doing. When you're going to take her to see her parents and her brother. If you've caught the bad guys yet. I don't know much about, well, I guess you'd say child psychology, but I'd say she's holding on to herself until you do. Catch them. To date, she hasn't said anything that would add to her previous statements.”

“All right. Moving on to Meredith Newman. GPS reps in cases like this are kept confidential. However, it's not that complicated to access the data. Anyone with serious interest and reasonable hacking capabilities could slither into the GPS files like a snake through grass. Feeney, I'll want your department to check the d and c's for any evidence of hacking. Maybe we'll get a bounce. The subject was abducted off the sidewalk on Avenue B, daylight grab, with witnesses. The speed and success of the grab indicates the suspects have some experience in daylight abductions. It also indicates there were three. It's unlikely these two would trust their vehicle to auto under the circumstances. We must assume Newman's connection to Nixie Swisher was the motive for the grab. We must assume that the perpetrators had experience in making grabs of this nature, in electronics and security, in stealth assassinations.”

“Military or para,” Feeney said. “Espionage or special forces. Average citizens, they're not.”

“If they were military, it's likely we'll find they washed out-or were promoted to fucking general because of their particular skills. One way or the other, these men have been in the field, and they've gotten wet. They're not rusty, either, so they've kept in the game.”

“Paramilitary seems more probable,” Roarke commented. “There's testing in standard military that would question the personality type or predilection of killing for personal gain or satisfaction-particularly children.”

“Mercenaries kill for personal gain, and are often attached to military ops.”

“True enough.” But he shook his head at Eve. “That's most usually monetary. Where is the monetary gain here?”

“We might not have found it yet, but let's say I agree. And I agree that it takes a certain kind of personality to slit a child's throat while she sleeps. That's terrorist tactics, and fringe at that. I think that's where this arrow's going to point.”

“More cross-checking then,” Baxter put in. “Known terrorists or members of fringe organizations.”

“Look for teams. Two or more who are known to work together, or known to have trained together. Then we need to put one of them, at least, inNew York during the last few years.”

“Could be hirelings,” Baxter pointed out. “Brought intoNew York to do the job.”

“Low odds. Hirelings would've been smoke an hour after the Swisher hit. But they're still inNew York, still here to grab up Newman. One or both of them targeted the Swishers, and for a reason. This means, at some point, one or more of them crossed paths with one or more of the Swishers. Security and wet work, and they're in shape. No desk jockeys or data crunchers. These are field operatives. Males, between thirty and sixty to start. White or light-skinned males. Either they or their organization has deep pockets. Look for the money.”

She rubbed the back of her neck, finished off the cold coffee. “They've got a place, in or near the city. Headquarters. They'd need something local, and they'd need something private. The only logical motive for grabbing Newman would be for information on Nixie Swisher. They'd need somewhere they could take her, work it out of her.”

“We'll be cross-checking until the blood runs out of our ears. Not complaining, Lieutenant,” McNab said quickly. “You can't look at that board and complain. Just feels like the time's dripping away.”

“Then you'd better get busy.” She checked her wrist unit. “Baxter, you're all right where we set you up?”

“It's prime.”

“Trueheart, maybe you could spell Summerset with the witness for fifteen. Mira's due here shortly, then she'll take her. Work with Baxter when you're off babysitting duty. Feeney, you and McNab can work here in the computer lab?”

“No problem.”

“I'll join you,” Roarke told them. “But first, Lieutenant, a minute of your time.”

“That's about all I've got to spare. Peabody?”

“I'll head down with Trueheart, say hi to Nixie.”

Then, to Roarke, she said, “I have to contact the commander, give him a report, so this has to be quick.”

He merely went to the door, closed it behindPeabody.

“What?” Eve's hands went automatically to her pockets. “You pissed about something?”

“No.” Keeping his eyes, deep and blue, on hers, he walked to her. “No,” he repeated, and taking her face in his hand, kissed her. Long, deep, soft.

“Jesus.” It took longer than it should have for her to pull her hands out of her pockets and nudge him back. “I can't play lock the lips with you now.”

“Quiet.” He took her arms, and the look on his face, so strong, so serious, had her going still. “I value my skin-a very great deal. I'll do what it takes to protect it. I'll do more yet, I promise you, to protect it so that you're not distracted from this with worry for me. I love you, Eve. I'll keep safe because I love you.”

“I shouldn't have hung that on you. I-”

“Quiet,” he repeated. “I'm not finished. You'll keep yourself as safe as you can. You're courageous, but not reckless. I know. Just as I know there are risks you'll take, risks you'll feel duty-bound to take. Don't keep them from me. When you find a way to use yourself as bait on this, I want to know about it.”

He knew her, she thought. Knew her, understood her, accepted and loved anyway. You couldn't ask for more. “I wouldn't do anything like that without telling you.” When his gaze stayed steady, she shrugged. “I'd think about doing it without telling you, but then I'd cave. I'm not doing anything on that angle until I'm dead sure they won't get me. Because if they get me, they've got a better chance of getting her. And because I love you, too: I get sure, decide to try something, I'll tell you first.”

“Good enough, then. I didn't ask before, and I know you're pressed now, but were you able to speak to the Dysons about Nixie?”

“To her. He was out of it. She's not in much better shape. I'm going to give them another couple days. I know it's inconvenient, but-”

“It's not. I just assume that she'd feel steadier if she had those familiar faces, if she were able to have her friend's parents with her.” He considered telling her what he'd dug up regarding Nixie's remaining family, then let it go. She had enough on her plate. And for reasons he couldn't explain, even to himself, he wanted to handle that part of it. “Summerset told me basically what Trueheart told you. She holds up, she breaks down, and holds up again. She's grieving, and there's no one here who can grieve with her, who knew her family.”

“I'll talk to Mira about it. Maybe she can speak to the Dysons. Might be better coming from her than me.”

“Maybe. I'll go join the EDD boys and leave you to your commander. Grab a nutribar at least with the next gallon of coffee you drink.”

“Nag, nag, nag,” she said as he walked out the door. But she got the nutribar out of her desk drawer.