Chapter Eleven #2
She tackled the board first, added Dent, Morris’s report—no surprises on that—crime scene stills, and all the texts and visuals that went with it.
Then Steven Redman.
She sat, opened her command center, and read through the files Donahue had given her.
Yeah, Eve thought, she’d been thorough, poked into every corner, and had been meticulous in keeping her hours, her travel, all her expenses.
Donahue had copies of the investigator’s report—Feeney’s—and the arson investigator’s report. One Eve had already studied, and yes, they’d been thorough, too.
But.
Something off at B/H, Donahue said in one of the audio notes. Something dirty under all that shine. Not my job, and I don’t have the resources to take it on. But it bugs me. One thing I’m reasonably sure of. Nobody there knows where Redman is.
Lawrence Chu. Redman’s pal, right hand in the lab. Doesn’t know, and not knowing makes him nervous. Not just worried, at least not for Redman’s well-being. Guilt? Fear? Need to keep eyes on him awhile longer.
Eve updated her book, attached Donahue’s files. She wrote her report, copied Peabody, Whitney, Mira, Feeney. Attached the PI’s files.
Then she opened her book again, added:
What did Redman know/find out?
How did person or persons unknown rig an explosion that passed as an accident under the eye of solid, thorough, experienced investigators?
How long was Redman aware and capable before he walked out of the health center?
Money. He’d need some. Where did he get it?
What’s he on and how is he accessing it?
What’s B-W hiding?
She sat back.
She needed to find those answers. Find one, she thought, the others would follow.
So she’d find one.
Rising, she walked back to the updated board.
Had he gone to a friend? The man had kept friends from childhood, high school, college. If he’d gone to a friend, he needed to be sure—no doubts—that friend could and would keep his secret, could afford to give him some money, or a place to hide.
So, she’d run the list, and after that, decide which ones to pull in and in what order.
She glanced over as Roarke came in. He said nothing, only walked over to stand with her, study her board in turn.
“You’ve identified the killer. This would be Olivia Redman’s brother?”
“Yeah. He’s been in the wind for six years. Missing, presumed dead. But he’s not dead. He’s busy making other people dead. I’ll explain.”
“Your gift was very entertaining, but not, I think, in a way that adds to your board or potential body count. I’ll explain. I’ll see to a meal.”
“No, I’ll do it. It won’t be pizza,” she said after he shot her an amused look.
“All right then. I’ll see to some wine. Red or white?”
“I think it’s white.” She turned into him, held on a minute. “Do you ever just really need to be home?”
“I do. And we are.”
“Yeah, we are.”
Galahad, more used to Roarke getting the evening meal, still didn’t want to miss the opportunity. He followed Eve into the kitchen, wound through her legs, meowed charmingly.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know the routine.”
She programmed fish and chips because Roarke favored it, and she liked it fine. Gave Galahad some of the little cat candy. The way he went at it, she often wondered if they laced it with some illegals.
She took out the plates, along with brown bread.
“Well now, that looks brilliant.” Roarke handed her a glass of wine.
She took one long sip before she sat. “You go first. On the explaining.”
“John Dearling, twice divorced, currently on his third marriage, is habitually unfaithful. He cheated on his first ex-wife with his second ex-wife, among others. And cheated on his second ex-wife with his first, among others, including his current wife. He’s cheating on her with both his first and second ex-wives. ”
“So he’s a dog.”
“Pathologically, it seems.”
“Why would ex number one and ex number two roll around with him when they have to know he’s a dog? Sometimes—hell, lots of times—people are just sad and stupid.”
She added a snow shower of salt to the chips, sampled one. “Or he has a magic dick.”
“I’d think if he had a magic dick, he wouldn’t be twice divorced.
In any case, he has an account I assume he keeps secret from wives, past and present, but it’s legitimate.
While he does receive annual bonuses from Banner-Wyst as well as a generous per diem for travel, it’s nothing like your two victims. No offshore or numbered accounts. ”
Roarke lifted his glass. “And nothing tossed his way thirteen years ago.”
“So he’s probably clear. Tell me this: If you wanted to blow up an apartment building, occupied, and make it look like an accident, a gas leak, make it look like that so a thorough investigation by experienced experts would sign off on it, how would you do it, or who would you hire to make it go boom? ”
As he considered the question, and Eve, he ate some fish. “First, you’ll be pleased to know that never in my long and illustrious career have I blown up an occupied building.”
“You’ve probably had to take a few down, right? Buy the property for whatever, but the building on it’s crap, condemned, would cost more to rebuild than demolish.”
“I prefer buying what can be saved with an investment of time, skill, and money, but yes. I’d want a good structural engineer and demolition expert for that. For what you’re asking, just the latter. Why?
“Okay, here’s why. In July of 2048, the apartment building Steven Redman lived in with his pregnant wife and their two-year-old son exploded. The explosion and resulting fire killed the wife, the kid, and many other tenants.”
“Why not Redman?”
“It’s confirmed that he, as he often did, walked a few blocks to a twenty-four/seven to get ice cream for his wife.
He was on his way back when the building went up.
Several witnesses had to restrain him physically from running inside.
He had a breakdown, entered a state of catatonia, where he remained for seven years.
“His family—the sister, his parents—got him the best care manageable, the best facility, doctors, treatment, all of it.”
“Until six years ago?”
“Until six years ago, when he got out of bed, took his clothes, and walked out of a staff exit. Poofed. The family filed a missing persons, no luck. They hired what I judge as a solid private investigator. No real luck.”
“You think he’s in New York now, and has killed the two victims on your board.”
“I know it. Thirteen years ago, both those victims received big-ass payoffs from Banner-Wyst, continued to get high-dollar annuals. The first vic and Redman worked together—and Chu was given Redman’s job, his position, and a big raise in salary when Redman went down.
They were friends, Redman and Chu. Dent also worked with them. ”
“On what would be the question.”
Eve gestured with a chip. “That’s the question.
Either that, or something else Redman stumbled across was bad enough, dirty enough he wouldn’t go along.
He was clean, Roarke. I can go over his background with you, but to sum up, clean.
A good man, family man, devoted to his wife and son, looking forward to having a daughter, soon to move into a nice brownstone.
Everyone I talk to says the same. Great guy, family man, smart—really fucking smart.
Honest, working to better lives, the world, all that. ”
“And in one night he lost it all. Tragically, violently, and while he wasn’t with his family. And,” Roarke added, “you think deliberately. You think murder, mass murder.”
“I do think that, and know he does. He finds out something, objects to something. Maybe he threatens to go to the authorities, the media, or maybe he just plans to. Either way, he’d need proof. The way I see it? The big guns at the company found out what he was going to do.”
“Either he was naive enough to tell them, or someone else did.”
“The someone else who fits best? Chu. And Chu, the compromiser, the facilitator, goes to the big guns. ‘Okay, let’s find the solution.’ And their solution?
Big boom. If you can pull it off as an accident, nobody’s going to look at the individuals inside the big boom.
Nobody’s going to connect the accident with the company.
Maybe you look deeper if someone inside was mob or gang connected, or gives a buzz in some way. Otherwise, why would you?”
“You believe someone at the top of Banner-Wyst ordered and arranged for hundreds to be killed, maimed, injured in order to dispose of one man?”
“I do. Would they?”
As he thought it through, he buttered some bread for her. “I wouldn’t have gone there, no. It sickens me to go there now. I’m no fan of theirs, but I wouldn’t have thought them capable of something like this.”
“I’m waiting for the but.”
“And here it is. But they’re not above controlling lives, and profiting by it. Still, to destroy so many for one?”
Eve bit into the bread that was, oddly, always better when he buttered it.
“Stage a break-in, burglary-homicide, we look at the victims. Kill Redman—hit-and-run, mugging, random murder—we look at the victim. Blow up a building, Redman’s one of many.”
“I see the vicious logic of it.”
“If what he knew would cost them billions, maybe the whole thing, destroy the company or severely damage it, lose them political influence, maybe include some prison time, he’d need to go, wouldn’t he? And in a way that wouldn’t make him stand out particularly, wouldn’t connect to them.”
Reaching over, he laid a hand over hers.
“I’ve spent my life in the pursuit of money, control, power.
First for survival, then because I wanted—needed—my own.
And because I’m good at it. Fair means or foul used, before you, and no regrets there.
But I’ve never been like them. Never taken someone’s home, their land, their way of life, just to own it. Never killed for money or power.”
“I know that.”