Eve dealt with the dishes while Roarke went back to his IT lab. She considered the fact his far-reaching company might have manufactured the swipe that got Dorian and Mina out of the Academy.
Coincidences bugged the crap out of her, but after some thought, she decided this didn’t qualify. Roarke Industries manufactured so much damn stuff, it would be more of a coincidence if they weren’t one of the possibles here.
Satisfied with that, she went back to her command center, programmed coffee.
So many tunnels in the city, she thought. In use, abandoned, rife with squatters and sidewalk sleepers. Add the underground and its dens of inequity. Sex shops, sex clubs—the sort you didn’t find on the streets, but under them. The junkies, the thieves, rapists, and those who felt wandering among them equaled adventure and excitement.
Tying in with all of that? Could be handy, lucrative, another sort of training ground.
But … that lacked the element of sophistication, and added an element of risk—security-wise, anonymity-wise. Maybe you had scouts troll through, looking for minor girls who wanted a taste of that adventure, or a street kid who thought she could find some work.
She wouldn’t dismiss that connection, but she wouldn’t put it at the top of her list. She could dismiss subway tunnels or tunnels known to house big pockets of junkies, homeless, the lost and abandoned.
Utility tunnels worked. Shut down the access to the Academy, even conceal it, and make use of them when empty. Easy enough to know. She had to believe they had the tunnels monitored. Too huge a security breach otherwise.
She’d look there, but would start with abandoned or out of use.
After a long, frustrating hour, she pushed up, poured more coffee, paced around the room.
“Give me something,” she said when Roarke came back. “Because I’ve got too damn much of everything.”
“I can give you a partial name. Partial last name, and some data that might help fill in.”
He went to her unit, hit some keys so data flowed onto the wall screen.
“Iamson,” Eve read, “vel 5, and we’ve got what … 4th, ment 206. Okay, that’s going to be level five—her clearance. An address. Could be Fourth Street, Fourteenth, Twenty-fourth, and so on. Iamson—that could be a last name.”
“From the angle of the break, it’s partial, then end of the surname.”
“Yeah, I see that. And is that a date? It could be a date, zero-five-seven. A year? 2057. Not date of birth. Date of employment?”
“As good a conclusion as any,” Roarke said, because as he saw it there were many. “It could be her serial number, a number assigned to her. Or part of a longer code. I wish I could give you more, but that’s all there is.”
“It’s more than we had. We’ve also got the location where Dorian hid after she escaped. She states she walked a long time, but odds are it just felt like it. She’s hurt, in pain, dazed, in shock.”
Eve ordered the map on-screen. “For now, I’m going to concentrate on below Houston, east and west. Let’s say you’ve worked for this organization for the last four years, you’ve got at least a mid-level clearance, you’re willingly working for people making money abducting, abusing, and selling children. You’re responsible for locking them in at night. I’m betting you make enough to afford a decent apartment, and one reasonably close to work.”
“You’re going with fourteenth.”
“Starting there,” Eve agreed. “It still gives us a hell of a lot of possible residences, but it’s an apartment, most likely a second-floor deal given the 206. We know she’s female, so—”
“Run a search for a female in that number apartment on Fourteenth Street whose last names ends in iamson.”
“Maybe we get lucky, maybe we don’t, but—”
“Let me have this.” Brushing her aside, he took the chair and the controls.
She could do it, she thought, but had to admit he’d do it faster. And they’d go north from there—and south into Brooklyn. Maybe matron bitch liked a little distance between home and work.
Maybe zero-five-seven wasn’t a date, but part of her ID code, or ’link code, or—
“Marlene Williamson.”
“You’re fucking kidding me. That fast?”
“Age forty-three, single, no offspring, no marriages on record, no cohab on record. Address 526 West Fourteenth Street, apartment 206. Employed at Red Swan Productions as night security since April 2057.”
“Red Swan, get me the data.”
“Coming on-screen.”
“Mobile videography, what the hell?”
“No location, no fixed address. Clever. I can dig in.”
“Yeah, yeah, we’ll do that, but we both know it’s a front, it’s bogus. Maybe they file enough, put enough data in to pass, but it’s bullshit. Let’s go. You drive.”
“If we’re heading to Williamson’s apartment, she’d be at work, wouldn’t she?”
“Yeah, so I’m tagging Reo on the way for a search warrant, and an arrest warrant so we bag her when she comes home. You drive, and I’ll set the rest up. I’ll put McNab and Peabody on the listed employer,” she said as she strode toward the door. She glanced at him as she pulled out her ’link. “Swans aren’t red, right?”
“Not on this planet.”
“Bogus,” she muttered, then pulled out her ’link and contacted the officer guarding Dorian.
“I need to talk to the kid.” She shot a finger at Roarke before he could object.
“She’s in her room, sir. Should I wake her?”
“Yeah, now.”
“Just one minute, Lieutenant.”
“She IDs Williamson,” Eve said to Roarke, “I won’t have to tap-dance with Reo to get the warrants, and she won’t have to do the same with a judge.”
She slid into the car Roarke remoted out of the garage as Dorian came on-screen. “What’s the what, man?”
“I’m sending an image through. Tell me if you recognize this individual, and if so, how and when.”
As Roarke drove toward the gates, Eve sent the ID shot.
“Oh, wow! Jeez! That’s Matron. That’s the floor matron bitch whose swipe I swiped.”
“Are you positive?”
“Holy crap, yeah. Like I wouldn’t recognize the bitch from hell who smacked me around and jabbed me with the shocker? I didn’t do the artist stuff yet. How did you get her picture?”
“By doing my job. Detective Yancy’s still scheduled for the morning. Be ready for that unless I say otherwise. Go back to bed.”
“But how—”
“You want the bitch from hell to pay?”
“Fucking A!”
“Then go back to bed and let me make that happen. Put the officer back on. Now.”
“Sir?”
“Close eye, Officer. If there’s another movement tonight, I’ll loop you in.”
“Standing ready, Lieutenant.”
“Well, someone won’t sleep much tonight. And,” Roarke said as Eve snarled, “you were absolutely right. The eyewitness statement will grease the wheels for the warrant.”
“She might have something in that apartment that leads to the location of the Academy. If not, I’ll have cops sitting on the place until she gets home. Then I’ll put her in the box, break her down.”
“I’ve no doubt of it.”
She tagged Reo as Roarke surged downtown.
The APA came on-screen with her frothy blond hair bundled up. She wore what Eve assumed was a robe—tropical birds winging over a hot-red background.
“You know,” Reo began, “I was having my first full evening at home—a nice quiet me time. Bubble bath with wine and candles, a home facial, just snuggled myself in with a chirpy rom-com vid to top it off. You’re not going to add to that lovely pattern, are you?”
“I need warrants.”
“See my shock and amazement. On the Cabot/Gregg case, the child trafficking?”
“Marlene Williamson. Gregg has identified her as the night floor matron where she was held, one who physically assaulted and abused her. Gregg stole Williamson’s security swipe—it’s how she and Cabot got out. We retrieved a broken piece of it from the pocket of the clothing Gregg wore when she escaped, and retrieved enough data to confirm it’s Williamson’s.”
“And you have Dorian Gregg’s positive identification?”
“Affirmative. I showed her Williamson’s photo, asked if she recognized this individual, and Gregg nailed her as the matron, no hesitation. I need search and seizure for her residence, and an arrest warrant.”
“You’ve got her data, send it to me. I’ll get you what you need. Bag her sick ass, Dallas. Let’s bag all of them.”
“That’s the plan. Push it.” She clicked off, tagged Peabody, and filled her in.
“We’re on our way. I can help with the search, McNab can help Roarke with the e’s. This is the break we needed, Dallas.”
“Yeah, it is. Later.” Eve clicked off. “We’re going to need a place to park and wait until the warrants come through.”
“I believe there’s underground parking.”
“You believe that because?”
“Unless I’m mistaken, it’s one of mine.”
“Shocked and amazed.” But possibly convenient, Eve admitted.
“I can hardly keep all the addresses in my head, but I’m reasonably sure of this, as we recently completed an upgrade on the tenant fitness center.”
“An upscale building, like I figured.”
“Judge for yourself.” He lifted his chin toward the midsize tower of steel and glass before turning into a parking garage. A light blinked, then flashed on the gate before it opened.
“How does it know you’re authorized?”
“There’s a sensor on all our vehicles that takes care of that.” He pulled into a slot. “We can go straight up to her floor, or to the lobby. You’ll probably want to speak to night security.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“And you’ll want a field kit.”
“You got that, too.”
He took one out of the trunk, then set the locks on the car.
They crossed the echoing garage to a bank of elevators.
“Does it ever get old?” she wondered. “You know: ‘Hey, that’s my place’?”
“Absolutely not.” He nudged her inside the car.
Eve scanned the levels as he called for the lobby. Three parking levels, the fitness and—jeez—indoor pool level, lobby, retail level, then the floors, one through twelve, topped by a rooftop level.
“How many tenants?”
“I couldn’t say right off, but if you need that information, I can get it.”
“No, just curious.”
She stepped out in the lobby.
Quiet, she noted, the air cool and subtly fragrant. Glossy black flooring with little gold flecks added an edge that, she supposed, suited the ultramodern art—all slashes and swirls of color—the twisty black-and-gold metal lighting hugging the ceiling, and the weird-ass flowers poking out of glass tubes.
The night man pushed off his stool behind a sleek U-shaped counter and quickly came around it. He wore a black suit with a gold tie and wore his ink black hair in a modified fade.
“Sir, ah, Lieutenant. I’m Rohan, the night manager. How can I assist you?”
“Marlene Williamson.”
“I believe she would be at work. She works nights, so I rarely see her. Our hours are similar.”
“Do you know when she left tonight, and when she usually comes back?”
“She hasn’t come through the lobby since I came on. At nine. But as I said, I rarely see her. I do believe she comes in most mornings at around five-thirty or six. I generally leave between five and five-thirty myself, but have occasionally crossed paths in the morning.”
Yeah, convenient, Eve admitted, and began to itch for the warrants. “How about this morning?”
“No, I’m sure I haven’t seen Ms. Williamson in the last several days, but that’s not unusual.”
“Maybe you could check the lobby feed,” Eve began, then her PPC signaled. “Never mind that for now. I have a warrant authorizing me to enter Williamson’s residence.”
“I see. If there’s some difficulty, or if I can be of any assistance in this matter, I’m at your service.”
“Great. Two officers will be coming in shortly. Send them up. If Williamson happens to come in while we’re up there, do and say nothing, just give us a heads-up.”
Eve started to dig for a card, but Roarke pulled out one of his own.
“Of course. Please let me know if there’s any other way I can assist you.”
With Roarke, Eve walked to the elevators—gold with black flecks. “Where’d you find him?”
“I can’t be sure, but I will find out. He never flicked an eyelash. I admire that.”
“If she’s on schedule, we have several hours before she heads back.” Eve rocked, heel to toe, toe to heel. “Plenty of time to go through her place. We find anything, we put an op together to take down the Academy, get those kids out, and I have some cops sit on her place in case she gets clear.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice and tidy and in a bow?”
“Yeah. How come things hardly work that way?”
She stepped out on two. Pale gray carpet on the floors, more bold art on silvery walls. Good lighting, she noted, solid security on every black apartment door.
She paused in front of 206.
“Record on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and civilian consultant—and owner of this property—Roarke. We have a warrant to enter this apartment, to search same and seize any evidence pertaining to the investigation of the abduction and murder of minor female Mina Cabot, the abduction of minor female Dorian Gregg, and the suspicion of child trafficking by Marlene Williamson, the resident, and others.”
“Very formal,” Roarke murmured.
“Cross every t on this.” She pressed the buzzer, waited. “Occupant does not respond, and is believed to be on duty at the as yet unknown location where the minor females are held. Mastering in.”
Roarke laid a hand on hers. “Before you do that, why don’t I disengage any and all alarms? It’s possible the occupant has an alarm tied to her ’link.”
“Okay, do that.”
While he worked, she scanned the hall. Quiet as a church, she thought. Whatever that meant. But if anybody watched screen, engaged in noisy sex, or beat the crap out of anyone behind those black doors, the soundproofing proved exceptional.
“There you have it,” Roarke told her. “Alarms and locks disengaged.”
“Great.” She gave the door a good pounding with her fist first.
“Marlene Williamson, this is the police. We are authorized to enter.”
She drew her weapon, went in low.
She caught the scent first. Death, but not human, not animal.
“Lights on,” she ordered, and swept the spacious living area with her weapon.
Clean lined furnishings in soft colors, and nothing out of place. A dining area with a glossy white table and chairs. The death was there in a vase of flowers drooping from a clear vase that showed a stingy level of cloudy water. Withered petals scattered over the table.
“We clear it, but she’s not here. She hasn’t been here in the last couple days at least. Seal up, then take the kitchen, see when she last used the AC.”
Weapon in hand, she headed down a hallway, a room converted to a home office, a small bath attached. The master, bigger, splashier—with more dead flowers on a dresser that showed a thin layer of dust.
The bed might’ve been made with military precision, but it had a lot of frills and fuss. In the master bath a single bud of some sort stood withered in a slim vase.
“No way,” she muttered. “No way all those flowers died today. An organized soul,” she said when Roarke joined her. “On the outside—the living area—conservative, even simple. Indulgent here in her personal space, fluffy pillows, frilly curtains.” She opened the closet.
“Same here. Straight lines, black or gray on one side—work clothes. And some cut-loose stuff on the other side.”
“She last used the AC on the evening those girls got out,” Roarke told her. “At seven o’clock—almost on the dot—dinner of beef tenderloin—real beef,” he added, “new roasted potatoes, and roasted eggplant. Iced tea.”
“That explains the dead flowers and the dust.”
“I did a quick search,” he continued as she took the can of Seal-It from the kit, used it. “Every morning prior to that last meal? An omelet or a soft-boiled egg, with fruit and whole wheat toast. Seven A.M., again almost precisely. At, again, precisely two in the afternoon, a salad. She used the dishwasher at seven-thirty-eight on that same evening. Besides the dishes you’d expect from the breakfast and so on, a wineglass. There’s a nice bottle of pinot grigio—open—in the wine fridge, and a very good selection of wine on a rack.”
“Tormenting kids pays well,” Eve concluded. “They either relocated her after the escape, or killed her. I’m betting on number two. They not only got past her, but her swipe card got them out. Grounds for termination.”
“With prejudice,” Roarke finished.
“She still could have things to tell us. We’ll start in the office.”
Since she planned to leave the electronics to him, and McNab when the detective joined in, she walked to the closet.
“Locked. I like it’s locked.” She rolled her shoulders. “Somebody’s got secrets.”
“Would you like me to open the lock?”
“I’ve got it.” She pressed a hand to her recorder. “Gimme your picks.”
“How do you know I have picks on me?”
“Because you always do. Gimme.”
He took out a small case, passed it to her.
Reengaging the record, she got to work on the lock. Sure, it would take her longer, but she wanted to practice anyway.
“Passcoded and fail-safed,” Roarke told her as he worked on the desk unit. “Yes, I’ll agree, someone has secrets.”
“And whoever relocated her or killed her didn’t think of that. Yet, anyway. Got this big auction coming up, got cleanup to do on the escape, got hunters out for Dorian. Busy, busy. Williamson, just a cog in the wheel.”
“It hasn’t been long.” Roarke sat, began to work on bypassing the security on the desk unit. “I’d say they’re not particularly worried about anyone noticing she hasn’t been home. Not worried about the police identifying her, particularly if they found the rest of the broken swipe.”
“Follows.” The thin bead of sweat running down her spine as she worked annoyed the crap out of her. But she kept at it.
“She lives alone, works nights. We’ll check to see if she had any daytime or day off visitors. Talk to neighbors, but— Got it!”
“Congratulations.”
“Bite me, slick.” She opened the closet. “Standard-type office supplies, and ooh, a safe—we’ll get to that. And a couple file boxes of discs.” She pulled them out, set them on the work counter, pawed through.
“Jesus, Roarke, they’re labeled. Trainees—by numbers. Going from … sixty-five to two-fifty-three. She kept records on the girls, her own records on them.”
She paused at the buzzer. “I’ve got that, keep at it.”
She hustled to the door, and snapped orders. “McNab, check the security, see if anyone’s entered the premises since the night of the escape. Peabody, start knocking on doors on this level, determine when anyone last saw Williamson. She hasn’t been here since the night of.”
“On that.”
“McNab, when you’re done here, assist Roarke. Peabody, contact Rohan at the desk. I want the security feeds and visitor’s logs. I want to know if anyone came to visit Williamson in—let’s start with the last three weeks. I want the feeds from the lobby, this hallway, the elevators, and the garage for the last five days.”
“Is she in the wind or dead?” Peabody wondered.
“I’m thinking dead, but maybe she went rabbit. She’s got a safe in her home office. We’ll see what’s in it, if anything. Go.”
She hurried back to Roarke. “Status?”
“Getting there. She either had the skills or hired someone with considerable. It’s a very fine job. Couple minutes more.”
While she waited, Eve selected a disc, used her own PPC. “I’m guessing she had the skills. The discs are encrypted. We’ll get through that, but it’ll take more time. I’m bringing Feeney in.”
Roarke looked up. “Eve, it’s near to midnight.”
“He’s a cop.” Pulling out her ’link, she walked to the master to search while she made the tag.
She found an old ’link, obviously kept as an emergency spare, a tablet, a roll of cash—two grand—in the underwear drawer.
“Like thieves never look there.”
Sexy underwear, but the only sex-type toys she found indicated solo rides. No regular bed partner, she concluded.
Soft, silky fabrics in the undergarments and night wear, some simple, serviceable jewelry, practical shoes on the business side, sex-me-up type on the party side.
“But you didn’t party much, did you, Marlene? All this tells me it was more a wide and twisted fantasy life. Maybe you got decent vacation benefits. That might be party time. Cut it loose somewhere not here.
“What’ve you got?” she asked Peabody without turning around.
“Nobody really knew her, not on this floor anyway. I’ve got a little from the woman across the hall. She knew Williamson worked nights mostly because she’d see Williamson come in some mornings when she headed out to the gym. Wit works remote at home three days a week, so she’d occasionally pass her in the afternoon—going to the market, that sort of thing. Mostly just nodded to each other.”
Peabody glanced at her notes. “She doesn’t remember seeing anybody visit, but since she felt Williamson didn’t want any friendly neighbor vibe, she didn’t make a point of chatting.
“Down the hall guy said he rode in the elevator with her sometimes when he headed out to meet friends and she was going to work. He asked, and she said she worked nights, then sort of froze him out—according to him.”
“Okay, let’s get that feed. I’m going to check on the e-team. Feeney’s on his way in.”
She went back to the office, saw McNab at the desk unit and Roarke crouched in the closet, with the safe door open.
“We’re in,” McNab told her. “I’m starting on files. She’s one paranoid mother, Dallas. Encrypted up the butt.”
“Feeney’s coming.”
“Couldn’t hurt, but we’re in here, and Roarke melted through the safe in like five seconds.”
Eve crouched beside Roarke as he drew out jewelry cases. “Those are going to be real.”
“I’d say so. Simple and elegant, good settings, good stones.” He opened cases, revealing necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings. “It’s a lovely little collection.”
“How much you figure?”
“At a glance? Maybe a couple hundred thousand. We’ll find they’re insured and pin that down. And look here.” He pulled out another box, opened it. “Nice and green.”
“She had a couple thousand in her panty drawer, this is more.”
“About … half a million. Smart, I suppose, not to bank it all. It’s likely she’s paid more than she should be, and rather than send up any flags, they do some, at least, in cash. Easier to wash that way, on all sides.”
“No way she’s in the wind. You don’t rabbit and leave all this behind. You want the cash—and there’s a passport here, and an unused ’link. Insurance. Gotta run, grab the sparkles, the cash, the passport, the fresh ’link. She didn’t get to run.”
She sat back on her heels. “Nothing in here, nothing I found in her bedroom that touches on the Academy. We need to get into those discs, and her personal files.”
“I’m getting there,” McNab told her.
She pushed to her feet. “Let’s take it all into Central. You’ll have more tools there, and it’ll be quicker. Tag Feeney, tell him to go there, not here. I’ll get a detail to sit on the place in case I’m wrong and she just found a hole to hide in for a few days.”
She looked around. “Take it in. Peabody and I will do another solid sweep through, check the security feeds, then meet you. You don’t—”
Roarke cut her off. “Don’t say it.”
She shrugged. “Knee-jerk. I’ll see you there.”
Eve walked away to order the detail.
But, she thought, she wasn’t wrong. Marlene Williamson had certainly taken a last trip through the tunnels and was never coming back.