Chapter Twelve
Though Melody Donahue had run the list of friends, Eve considered several years had passed since. She wanted all current data.
She learned one friend had married, one divorced. One married and divorced. Another had two kids within that six-year period and moved from Manhattan to Brooklyn.
She found a scant handful of criminal bumps—petty stuff, no violence.
Most financially secure enough to have made a loan, or a gift of money, to a friend in need.
Running them wouldn’t be enough, she decided. She needed in-person.
She’d go to the morgue first, view the body again, get a sense from Morris if there was anything to sense. No need for the lab because, though Dent had fought back, he hadn’t drawn blood. Or none left on scene.
She sat back, coffee in hand, and studied the board.
“I see you, Steve,” she murmured. “You were fit, healthy, probably hit the gym a couple times a week. Young, reasonably strong. But not strong enough to do what you did to Chu and Dent.”
No, not strong enough for that. And she considered, more than a decade later, after lying in a hospital bed for a good chunk of that.
She rose, paced.
Sure, physical therapy, and they’d get him up to walk. Like a zombie. To keep his muscles from atrophying, avoid blood clots, bedsores, maybe hope to stimulate body and mind.
“But you’d be weak, you’d be on the frail side. So you’d need time, wouldn’t you, to get stronger. Build muscle again, endurance.”
But even with that, she thought as she paced, circled, even with that, it wouldn’t be enough. You’d need more.
“Something to jack you up,” she muttered. “Get strong again, sure, maybe even get some training. Boxing, martial arts.”
If he’d just wanted to kill them, she thought, he’d get in, with a weapon, get it done. Or maybe he’d wanted to torture them first, the way he felt tortured. Restrain them, let them know what’s coming and why, then get it done.
“But that’s not what you wanted. You wanted what I saw at the first scene. Destroy, eradicate, and with your own hands. Personal. You needed to feel it.”
A scientist, a man of intellect. A man who knows his chemistry.
“Got a lab, don’t you, Steve? Or access to one, because you’re making what you’re using.”
She sat again, put her boots up on the desk.
Some chemi-heads and users could mix their junk in a bucket-sized sink in a flop, she thought. Would he settle for that?
“Maybe, maybe. Just need enough to buy supplies, some basic equipment.”
She hissed out a breath. Not Zeus, he wasn’t cooking Zeus, because he needed to be in control, he needed to be able to think. Get in and get out and not simply rampage.
So something he created specifically for this. That would take time, too. Calculate, experiment, perfect—or close enough.
Six years, she decided. It had taken him six years to rehabilitate his body, to create whatever drug took him to another level.
Another level, she thought, that allowed him to beat two men to death within hours.
Add in figuring out or learning to access security codes, texts on a personal ’link. Being patient enough, careful enough, controlled enough to make sure the target’s alone. Controlled enough. Feeling enough to turn those family photos away.
“Yeah, you made something, and Jesus, we sure as hell don’t need whatever it is on the street.”
When Roarke came in, she shared her thoughts.
“He’s cooking whatever he’s using himself. Not Zeus, he has too much control for that. Six years because he had to get back in shape after longer than that sedentary. And he needed time to make the drug he’s using.
“How long do you figure to get back in decent physical shape?”
“I couldn’t say, but you know two doctors very well. Louise or Mira would certainly have a better handle there.”
“Right.” She considered tagging one or both. “It can wait. I should see them both tomorrow. Louise at Chu’s memorial, Mira at Central. I’m just trying to get a kind of timeline, mostly curiosity.”
“Always better to know than not. I have some names for you, separated into professionals for hire, and for wet work. You’ll have a hunt on your hands there. And your more legitimate sorts, employed by Banner-Wyst, and those who aren’t but are also considered top in their field.”
“This is good.”
“I’ve marked those I know, who have done work for me. They would have been carefully screened. But you might want to look at them regardless.”
“Bottom of the list. Top starts with on the payroll. Can you run financials on those?”
“Running now on auto. I thought you’d want the list first, so I’ve sent it to your unit.”
“You’re right, I do. Thanks. It may not lead to Redman—and tomorrow I’m having somebody run a rendering of what he should look like now—but this could be the next step to—ha ha—undermining Banner-Wyst.”
He started to speak, then frowned toward his office when something in there gave a series of beeps.
“What’s that?”
“I programmed it to signal if there was a large payment made in the timeline of the explosion. It appears there was.”
“Well, Jesus, let’s go check it.”
“Sit.” He eased her back down, leaned over her to dance his clever fingers over her keyboard.
“Computer, bring up file just copied and forwarded.”
Acknowledged. Working . . . Task complete.
“Ah, Carlos Cruz, who ostensibly runs a construction company, but under that cover blows things up for profit. And see here?”
“Yeah, I see there. Account CruzLine, ostensibly—since you used that big fat word—a travel agency. Deposit of three million the day before the explosion, deposit of another five the day of—logged one hour after the building went off. Son of a bitch.”
Hissing out a breath, she sat back. “Banner-Wyst—because it’s damn well Banner-Wyst—shelled out a hell of a lot to kill one man.”
“And missed.”
“And all those other people, they were nothing to them. Less than nothing. Where is this fucker?”
One hand on Eve’s shoulder, Roarke tapped a key.
“New York, all right then. Upper East, Second Avenue. I’m going to go pick him up.”
He gave her shoulder a pat. “I’ll be your Peabody.”
Eve imagined Peabody sitting in her new home, surrounded by family. Probably squealing so everyone could hear.
“That’ll work.” As Eve rose, she pulled out her ’link to contact APA Cher Reo.
“Dallas.” Reo, fluffy blond hair stirring in the autumn breeze, walked briskly. “I suppose you want a warrant.”
“Where are you?”
“Walking home, nearly there. Worked late, grabbed drinks and dinner with colleagues who did the same. Have you got a suspect on your two murders?”
“I do, but this isn’t for him. Carlos Cruz. Evidence says he was paid to blow up the apartment building where my suspect lived. Missed him, took out his family and the majority of other tenants.”
“When did this happen?”
“Thirteen years ago last summer.”
Reo stopped in a glow of a streetlight. “Thirteen years ago?”
“I’m heading to pick up Cruz now. He’s both prime suspect in the bombing, resulting in mass casualties, and a target of Steven Redman, who’s already beaten two men to death. I’ll brief you on the move, but I’m going.”
“And I’m listening.”
As they headed down, started out, Roarke listened to the shorthand exchange. All facts and data laid out, he thought as he got behind the wheel, quickly, concisely.
He had to admire filtering down conspiracies, murder for hire, payoffs, vengeance killings, evidence, observations, and motives into a three-minute precise summary.
“You’re going to ask me, before long, for a massive search warrant on Banner-Wyst, aren’t you?”
“We’ll trace Cruz’s payments back to them.” Eve glanced at Roarke. “Right?”
“Well now, it won’t be a walk in the park considering the time lag. Or, we’ll say, it’ll be a long, winding, often frustrating walk in the park.”
“Hello, Roarke.”
“Hello, Reo.”
“I need the warrant for Cruz, Reo.”
“And I’ll get it for you, Dallas. Walking into my building now. I’ll get back to you.”
“You know,” Roarke began, “I’m often obliged to listen to long-winded speeches, oral reports, pitches, updates, and so on. They could all learn a lesson from you and our favorite APA.”
“Right.” She focused now on her run of Carlos Cruz. “He’s fifty-six, mixed race, one marriage, one divorce, one offspring—male, age twenty, currently in Princeton. A number of arrests, no convictions. We’re going to change his luck there.”
She frowned as she read. “Four years in the army, where he learned to handle explosives. Owns some properties, including the one he lives in.”
“Once you have him, I’ll go over the rest of his finances. There’ll be more payments for services rendered, and some travel for those services, I imagine.”
“There’s that, but that long, winding walk in the park is priority. I’ll tag Feeney on it.”
He glanced at her. He knew that face.
“It’s not just finding Redman now, is it then?”
“No, that’s primary, but the rest of them? It’s time they paid for what they’ve done, are doing, plan to do.”
Roarke pulled to the curb in front of a white brick building she imagined had once been a foursquare—two units up, two down.
Now it boasted one large entrance door flanked by wide windows. Above the three second-story windows, an iron rail danced across the edge of the roof.
“Well designed, at least on the surface. He does run a construction company after all.”
She continued to study as they got out. “Privacy-screened windows, expected. Lights on, main level. Good security, but not yours.”
“No, not mine. I’d say this is his own work, or one of his employees’.”
Eve took out her badge for the expected scan, rang the bell.
She waited, rang again. “Come on, Reo, where’s my warrant?”
“It’s early yet. He may not be home. Why don’t we find out?”
“You’re not lifting those locks.”
“Ah, the crushing disappointment. But I was thinking more along the lines of a scan.” He pulled out his PPC.
“You can do a scan with that?”
“I’ve made some adjustments, so I can, yes.”
Deciding it shouldn’t surprise her, she leaned in to watch the screen with him.