Chapter 17

SHE WOKE EARLY AND ALONE. IN THE MURKY light before dawn she felt the alone even before her eyes adjusted.

Roarke was up and... somewhere already, she thought. She’d have wondered how he managed to rise, even shine so damn early, but even as she lay there she knew she’d finished with sleep herself.

Her mind had already circled to Reinhold.

Even as she sat up she cued into the snoring, a sound even kindness and affection couldn’t term a purr. She made out the heap of fur and limbs that was Galahad at the foot of the bed.

At least somebody knew how to sleep until actual morning, she thought, and shoved out of bed.

She’d grab a workout and a quick swim, she decided. Tune everything up since she had the time. She hunted up ancient sweat shorts, a support tank, tossed an NYPSD T-shirt over it.

The cat never stirred, the snoring never ceased while she pulled on shoes, then slipped into the elevator.

A hard thirty-minute run, she calculated, maybe fifteen on weights, ending with fifty laps in the pool.

She stepped out in the pool area with its lush plants, exotic flowers, deep blue water. Of all the luxuries, the indulgences spread through the home that Roarke built, she considered the pool her biggest personal perk.

Tempting, she mused, to just strip off and dive in, but more satisfying to work up a sweat first.

And circling around toward the gym, she saw the light glowing.

She paused before she entered, and heard Roarke’s voice, then someone else’s.

Easing around the corner, she saw him—in workout gear nearly as ragged as hers—steadily bench-pressing while he carried on a conversation. He had the comm on speaker, she realized as the voice—male, high-toned Brit—rattled off a lot of equations and buzzwords she didn’t completely, hell, didn’t remotely, understand.

While Roarke lifted, tossed out questions and comments about fire codes, something to do with egress, some sort of three-dimensional blueprint flashed on a wall screen, shifted, revolved, zoomed in, went from side to bird’s-eye views.

It looked, even to her untrained eye, big and important.

She slipped in, got an easy smile from Roarke, and angled over to program one of the machines for her morning run.

The beach, she decided, programming manually while Roarke’s conversation continued. Tropical sunrise.

She liked the feel of sand under her feet, and the rosy light blooming on the eastern horizon, the sight and sound of waves kissing the shore then rolling coyly away again.

Okay, maybe the cutting-edge gym, so far removed from the crowded space and iffy equipment she’d once had to settle for at Central, equaled another really big personal perk.

She took a couple minutes at a light jog to warm up, then steadily increased her pace until she ran full out.

While she ran, she heard the clink and thunk as Roarke set his weights on the safety, then, a switch in tone as he started a new conversation. Italian? she wondered before the opening greetings switched to English—and talk about engines (she thought) and aerodynamics.

He’d switched to free weights, she noted, doing biceps curls as he studied the screen and schematics on some sort of muscular air transport.

Shortly, he moved onto a lab in France—she thought maybe they discussed perfume. But it could’ve been serums. By the time she’d finished her thirty, he stepped onto a machine himself for his own run.

She lifted, curled, pressed while he ran and did whatever he did with Europe. When she stopped, grabbed water, he turned off the speaker and the screen.

“A happy morning meeting of the minds,” he commented.

“Is that what that was?”

“I meant you and I, but the rest went well enough.”

He’d worked up a healthy sweat, she noted, had talked business with three or four countries, and looked alert and revved.

And it was barely dawn.

“Does it make you dizzy jumping from country to country that way?”

“It’s all a matter of maintaining your rhythm.”

She eyed him as he ran. Slick, limber, strong. “Meaning you establish yours, and they have to match the pace.”

“That’s about it, yes. You’re up early. Dreams?”

“No. At least none I remember. I’m just up. And it gave me a chance to squeeze this in—and a swim.”

“I’ll join you there. I’ve tied off most of what I wanted to tie off this morning before the holiday.”

“That’s tomorrow.” She’d done her best to etch it into her brain.

“Family’s in today. So...” He slowed for his cool down, smiled over at her. “And it clears some time for me to work with you, Lieutenant.”

“Find the money, find him,” she said. “Failing that, he’s going for another, probably tonight. Unless he’s crying over his broken toes.”

Roarke stepped off the machine, took a water as she had. “You’re not considering he may take a holiday himself? On the simple factor his targets are probably expected somewhere tomorrow?”

“He can’t wait.” Her conclusions mixed with Mira’s equaled immediacy to her. He wanted, felt he deserved, instant gratification.

“It’s too exciting. And if he’s thinking about the Thanksgiving deal at all, he’d want to screw with that. Devastate someone’s family on a day they’re all supposed to be stuffing pie in their faces and saying how grateful they are. It just makes it more satisfying that way.”

“You’ve a point. It’s going to take some time through legal means,” he said as they started out to the pool. “I can cut that considerably with the unregistered.”

“I’m thinking about it.” Torn, she stripped off. “There’s some time, one way or the other. He’s not the broad daylight sort, doesn’t have the balls for it, not yet. He likes sneaking around at night. There’s some time,” she repeated, reassuring herself.

She dived in. Cool water on her skin, that slight shock to the system, a quick rev to smooth laps. And Roarke, his body slicing down through the water, then matching her stroke for stroke so they hit the far wall together, turned, powered back.

She lost track of the laps—five, ten—but her body and mind hit that line between energized and relaxed. The burn of muscles created the perfect contrast to the coolness of the water.

When her heart labored, when those muscles began to tremble, she pushed for one more lap, then let herself sink before surfacing.

“God. Why don’t they make another hour in the day, then we could start every morning this way?”

He slid over to her, ran a hand down her slicked-back hair. “Would you?”

“Probably not, but it’s a really nice thought.” She angled toward him, tipped her head back, found his lips with hers.

Glided skin to skin.

“And an even better one,” Roarke murmured.

Twin beeps sounded from the ’links they’d both set on the table near the pool.

“What the hell? That’s not my signal.”

“It’s the notification signal, on both,” he told her.

“I didn’t set any notification.”

“I did—on both. Bugger it.” He shoved back his hair, climbed out of the pool, grabbed a towel. “For the bloody medal business this afternoon.”

“What? Today? It’s today?” And how had she managed to completely erase it from her mind. “What’s worse than bugger it? I want something worse.”

He only sighed, tossed her a towel. “We’ll get through it, then it’ll be done.”

“I’ve got a homicidal crazy as lucky as he is stupid to find, and you’ve got a horde of Irish relatives coming in. You should tell Whitney we need to pass—postpone,” she amended.

On the faintest smile, he angled his head. “I should?”

“He’s my superior. I can’t tell him we’re too busy.” She hissed at Roarke’s steady stare. “And neither can you. I mean, you could, but you won’t—and I get it. Damn it. It’s an honor. It really is,” she continued as she dried off. “But why does it have to be a public one? It’s your fault.”

“Mine?” Amusement growing, he hooked the towel around his waist. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Because you’re really rich and famous, so that plays into the politics.”

“Well, that’s an interesting conclusion. I thought that played into the difficult politics of it all, and why they’ve held you back from captain until recently.”

“It’s all stupid politics. Who knows which way they roll?”

“But my fault, whichever direction?”

“Yeah. Yours.”

“And it wouldn’t have anything to do with you being so fucking brilliant at your work?” He arched his eyebrows over eyes dancing with humor.

“I ought to be able to be fucking brilliant at my work without them making me stand in front of crowds of people and cameras and Christ knows. How come I get punished for being good?”

“It’s an honor, remember? And, yes, a punishment from your view. And bloody sticky from mine. It’s what I get for marrying a cop.”

She jabbed a finger at him. “Warned you.”

Laughing now, he grabbed her, spun her around. “I wouldn’t have it otherwise, even with the bleeding medal. So we’ll suck it up, Lieutenant.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky, and I’ll be putting restraints on Reinhold this afternoon. Even the mayor can’t argue that one.”

“Let’s hope. And let’s eat. I’m starving.”

···

She ate, even though he pushed stupid oatmeal on her. And since she’d gotten a jump-start on her day, started the next round in her home office. Galahad joined her, sitting in her sleep chair giving himself a casual morning wash.

“The computer likes the model for his next target,” she told him. “I don’t know about that.” While Galahad continued to wash, she rose to study the board. “Female, probably physically weaker, so that’s a plus. But she has a male cohab. She lives uptown—out of his current comfort zone. Even without the police protection he shouldn’t know about, her building has top-notch security. He’s going to want her,” Eve mused. “And yeah, he probably wants her now, but he doesn’t have the chops to get past her security and her cohab.”

Baxter’s report had confirmed Marlene Wizlet rated Extra Frosty with a Side of Yow. More important, he assessed her security—electronic and human—as solid, the cohab as smart, and protective enough to have already hired a bodyguard.

Reinhold would want her, Eve thought again, but had to know she wouldn’t be an easy get.

She’d take more study, wouldn’t she? More of a plan. Lure her out, take her off the street. Possible. Possible he’d try. But wouldn’t he need somewhere to take her?

“Is he going to start soiling his own nest, wherever the hell that is? More control in your own place. Would that offset the thrill of messing around in someone else’s safe zone?”

Also possible, she thought.

But he was hurt. The foot had to be giving him some trouble, should make him reconsider any sort of physical altercation.

He liked taking his victims from behind, by surprise.

The shopkeepers were a better bet to her thinking. Older couple, right in his neighborhood. If he could get to one of them, he could use that to entrap the other.

He had money now—a nice pile of it, and more than enough to invest in a black-market stunner, a fake badge, a uniform. With the holes in the Schumakers’ building security, and again not knowing about the police protection, he could access their apartment easily enough. Just slide in behind another resident, or pose as a delivery or maintenance guy. Or a cop.

“I’d wait. Bide my time, watch the building, the routine. Go in at night. Cop uniform’s the most direct.”

She glanced over at the cat, but apparently the washing had exhausted him so he lay on his back, all four legs splayed in utter relaxation.

“You’d think you’d had sex instead of kibble. Anyway, then you just knock, ID yourself as NYPSD. Law-abiding citizens are going to open the door. Use the stunner, keep it quiet.

“Soundproofing’s not good on those older buildings. Lock it up, gag and restrain, then you can do what you want to them. Hours of doing what you want to them.”

“Lucky for the populace you’re also law-abiding.”

She frowned over her shoulder at Roarke. “I thought you were busy with empire stuff.”

“I was, now I’m not. And as I’m about to shift my efforts into find-the-stolen-money stuff, I wanted to see you before you left for Central.”

“Going in a few minutes. This is the best way in, right?” She gestured to the building on screen. “A minor investment in costuming, hit them late, stun, lock up, restrain.”

“These two as targets?” he asked, stepping closer to look at the photos of the Schumakers.

“Yeah. They live over their market. See, the building has security cams on the main entrance, card swipes for residents, and buzzers for lock release—visitors, deliveries.”

“And potential thieves and murderers. What floor are they?”

“Third. Northwest corner unit.”

“Fire escape?”

“Yeah.”

“I wouldn’t bother with the costume. I’d invest in a good jammer, a good scanner. He grew up in the neighborhood, and has probably accessed fire escapes before. I’d go that way, scan the windows for alarms, jam if any. If they’ve locked the windows, which a great many people comfortable in their third-floor unit don’t, a simple glass cutter can be used to lift a window lock. A child could do it.”

“Which you did.”

“Oh, as often as possible. Then he’s in, and unless he’s drawn any attention getting in, he doesn’t have building security picking him up.”

“He’s got a bum foot.”

“That’s what blockers are for.”

“Yeah.” She jammed her hands in her pockets. “The comp likes the model.” Eve tapped the photo.

“She’s lovely.”

“And she’s got a male cohab. He’s lovely, too—and bigger and fitter than Reinhold. Plus her security’s out of his reach. This would be his first break-in, if he goes that route. He was already in his parents’ apartment, had the key for the ex’s, and bashed the teacher as she came back in with her dog. He’s never had to deal with locks, security, or an actual break-in. Logically, he should aim for the target with the easiest access.”

“And you see this couple.”

“No, I see Asshole Joe—this guy. He’s the only one of Reinhold’s friends who’s shrugging off what he’s done. I think Reinhold could talk his way into Joe’s place, or lure him out, depending on what he wants. He may even know a way in since he’s probably hung there often enough. He’s the easiest hit, but probably not the most satisfying.”

“Ah.” Roarke scanned the board, the photos, the notes applied. “And not covered, I see, as the others are.”

“No, he shrugged off protection, too. Crowding him, cramping his style with the ladies or some such shit according to the reports. I’m going to have a face-to-face with Asshole Joe today.”

“Who’d be the most satisfying?”

“On my scale, Wayne Boyd. Reinhold’s carried that grudge close, and I’d bet every time he bashes someone with a baseball bat, he thinks of Coach Boyd, getting benched, being the goat instead of the hero in the championship game.”

“Boyd said he hadn’t come down on the boy about the strike out, but kids being kids...”

“Yeah, some of them would’ve had some choice words for him. And reaching that conclusion, I’ve done what I can to find and reach all the members of Reinhold’s team, the opposing team.”

“Do you honestly think he’d go that deep, that far?”

“I think it’s a damn good thing he wasn’t involved in Red Horse,” she said, referring to a major case she’d closed. “If he had a chance to use the Menzini virus? He’d take out everyone who’s ever sent him a cross-eyed look, and all the bystanders he could while he was at it.

“He’s not that different from Lewis Callaway—the same whining, entitled, pay-you-all-back mentality. The difference is he likes being there, he likes the power of killing face-to-face, having his hand in it.”

“He lacks Callaway’s control, if control’s the word for it. And needs that connection, we’ll say, with his victims.”

“That’s close enough,” Eve agreed. “Still, with the Boyds, you’ve again got pretty good security on their building, and a whole family to take on. He’d never get in the door, or a window without excellent equipment and honed B and E skills. His best move there would be to grab the wife or one of the kids, use that to bait Boyd into coming to him or giving him access. But that’s risky. Really risky.”

She paced away, paced back. “He’s pissed off. The injury has to have him pissed off. At the same time, he walked out of Farnsworth’s with millions, so he’s smug. He’s won every round, so that’s made him cocky. And still he’s a coward. He thinks he’s brave, he thinks he’s found his strength, his purpose, his life’s work, but everything he’s done is with the mind-set of a scared, spoiled, ungrateful child inside a man’s body.”

“Well now, it couldn’t be said by any definition I was spoiled as a child, but ungrateful I surely was. It’s hard to be thankful for the boot or the fist. And scared, that, too, most of the time. I’d’ve gone for the shiniest prize, I’m thinking.”

“You were never a coward.”

He met her eyes, thought of his father. “He terrified me, every day, even when I learned defiance could be a shield of sorts. And the last beating he gave me, one that nearly put me in the ground? I wonder still if I’d’ve been scared enough to go back to him, as he was all I knew. But Summerset found me, took me in. Gave me a choice. Not that I was altogether grateful for it, at the start of it.”

Eve took his hand. Sometimes she forgot he’d been a child, as frightened, lost and beaten down as she.

“He’d have been my shiniest prize,” Roarke murmured. “Somewhere down the line, if someone hadn’t beaten me to it. I couldn’t have lived in the world, or felt a man if he’d been breathing in it.”

She wondered what he would think or feel if he knew the person who’d beaten him to it had been Summerset. And that, she thought, wasn’t hers to tell.

“His parents never hurt him, never abused him. There’s not only no evidence of that, but plenty to the contrary.”

“But, as you say, it’s a mind-set.”

“Yeah.” She looked back at the board. “Boyd or the model. They’re the shiniest. The other teacher, Garber—not as hard to get to, but he’s just done a teacher. I think another, back-to-back would... bore him. There’s former employers, supervisors, even coworkers, so they’re on the watch list.”

“And you’ve dozens on that list,” Roarke said.

“Yeah. I’m going to hope you’re right about the shine. They’re both well covered. If he tries for either Boyd or Wizlet, we’ll take him down. The trouble with that? There’s bound to be more who aren’t among those dozens. People no one thought of or knew about.”

Impossible to know, he thought, and hardly a wonder she continued to circle the same ground. “So finding him before he settles or moves on a target is the only way to be sure.”

“New ID, new place. If he had the smarts, he’d hole up for a few days, heal up, put a real plan together.”

“But he’s not smart.”

Eve shook her head. “Not smart enough.”

“Then I’ll go back to finding the money. I’ll work here for now,” he added as he turned her to him. “And likely go in at some point to mesh up with Feeney. But I’m damned if I’ll set foot in Central today if I don’t have your word you’ll not be leaving me hanging on the damn medal business.”

“If I’m in the field—”

“Ah.” His eyes glinted a warning that had her rolling her own.

“I’ll stay in contact. And if I hit something hot enough to get out of the ceremony, I’ll let you know. You’re slick enough to slither out of it.”

“That’s a deal then.” He kissed her, surprised and touched by her quick, hard embrace.

“I’ll see you when I do,” she told him. “One way or the other.”

“If we go through with this thing today, you’ll be wearing your uniform, won’t you?”

“Yeah. That’s how it goes.”

His smile lit up. “At least that’s something. Mind my cop till I see her next.”

When he walked away she told herself being grateful for Summerset, right down to her core, was a secret she could take to the grave.

···

She sent Peabody an alert to meet her at Joe’s apartment. She’d just get that out of the way first, she decided as she headed downstairs.

She found her coat over the newel post. She knew Summerset hung it up at night, then laid it back out in the morning. She’d never understand why he didn’t just leave it there. Same with her vehicle, she thought as she walked out, swinging on the coat.

She left it in front of the house, he remoted it to the garage, then remoted it back in the morning.

Routine, she thought. Everybody had one.

She glanced up at the sky as she crossed to her car, and felt a little bubble of hope. If those heavily overcast skies opened up—and timed it right—they’d at least be spared the medal ceremony on the very, very public steps of Cop Central.

Something else to—maybe—be grateful for.

She drove away and through the gates. In less than two minutes she found herself caught in a thick knot of traffic, punctuated with a wild orchestra of clashing horns.

Since the car came outfitted, she used the camera to see how bad it was, and zoomed in on a broken-down maxibus effectively blocking two lanes.

Though she suspected Traffic had already been notified, she called it in before punching vertical. She skimmed over roofs, cut east. A longer route, she thought, but at least she wouldn’t be sitting, stewing.

Besides, a different, even longer route equaled a break in routine. Different buildings, different patterns, different glide-carts and street vendors—and who did they sell NYC souvenirs, scarves, hats, gray-market handbags to this early in the morning?

Holiday time, she reminded herself, the start of the insane Christmas shopping season. Tourists, slap-happy with a vacation or trip to New York, swarmed what they considered bargains like ants on sugar.

Early setup, she supposed, to take advantage of that change of usual patterns, that break in routines.

Routines, she thought, straightening in her seat. Reinhold was breaking them—reaching for more upscale with food, clothes, accommodations. But routines were routines for a reason.

Wouldn’t he have a favorite arcade? He liked games. A favorite club, pizza joint? Sports? Baseball was out given the season, but did he have a favorite Arena Ball team—football, basketball, hockey?

He could afford tickets now. He could afford courtside, fifty-yard line. Box seats.

Vids, music, hot clubs—what was trending right now?

Struck, she tagged Mal Golde on her in-dash ’link.

“Ah, hey, Lieutenant.”

She saw from the droopy eyes, the tousled hair, she’d either woken him or he’d put in a rough night. Maybe both.

“Questions. Neighborhood pizza joint, the one Reinhold favors.”

“Vinnie’s, sure. It’s always Vinnie’s.”

“What’s he get—routinely.”

“Ah... Sorry,” he said as he scrubbed his hands over his face. “Didn’t get much sleep. Um... pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, green peppers.”

“Okay. Favorite sports teams.”

“Yankees, all the way. We used to go around ’cause I’m a Mets fan, and—”

“Not baseball. Arena Ball, football, basketball. Something in season.”

“Football—Giants. Dug-in Giants fan. He’s not big on Arena or roundball.”

“Okay. Hangouts. Arcades, clubs, delis, whatever.”

“We’d mostly hit Jangles, in Times Square. It’s worth the ride, then maybe grab a brew if we were flush enough at Tap It—it’s right on Broadway between Forty-fifth and Forty-sixth. Jangles has tourneys. Jerry always scraped up the scratch to enter. He nearly won once, too, but Bruno nipped him out. Pissed Jerry off big.”

“Bruno who?”

“Oh.” Mal’s eyes widened, his face paled. “God, I didn’t think of him before. I don’t know his name. Bruno’s his game tag. Big guy, just a kid though. Maybe eighteen. Freaking game wizard.”

“Anything else you can think of? Routines, favorites, usuals.”

“Pistachio float from Gregman’s—a neighborhood place. He’s been hooked on them since we were kids. Oh, and um, Lucille.” He glanced around, lowered his voice. “I didn’t think of her before either. If I so much as think of an LC with Ma in the room, she’ll know it. She’s got that power.”

Having met his mother, Eve didn’t doubt it.

“He frequents an LC named Lucille?”

“Well, see, all of us did. She’d— This is embarrassing.”

“Murder trumps embarrassment.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it does. See, she used to give us a group rate on bjs—me, Jerry, Joe, Dave. Back when we were sixteen, seventeen, like that. Jerry, and look I didn’t know about this until after, but you don’t rat out your friends anyway. He stole some money from his mother, and paid Lucille for a full ride. I think, I’m pretty sure, it was his first. Like when he was around eighteen. I know Joe ragged on him some about being a virgin, and Jerry said how Lucille had done him, all the way.”

“You all still hire her?”

“No. Man.” His ears went a little pink, and he took another wary glance behind him. “I don’t. And Dave doesn’t, not that I know of. But I’m pretty sure Joe and Jerry still see her sometimes.”

“Where’s Lucille?”

“She used to hang around Avenue A, back when she had a street license. But she got her own place, and upped her license. I’m not real sure, but maybe she’s still in Alphabet City. I haven’t seen her, you know, since I was about eighteen. It was just too weird getting—having the same LC do all of us.”

“Okay. Just give me a basic idea on her. How old? Race?”

“Ah, I think she’s not much more than me—like maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight. Like that. Mixed. I think Black and Asian. She’s really nice looking, or was.”

“Okay, thanks. Anything or anyone else comes to mind, contact me.”

“Sure. Um, Lieutenant? Dave and I—and Jim, Dave’s brother—we did a sweep of the neighborhood last night. We didn’t see him, or talk to anybody who has.”

“Trying to do my job, Mal?”

“No, really, no. Dave and I, we just had to get out of the house for a while. And we stuck together. We’re all sticking together.”

“Keep doing that,” Eve advised.

The conversation nearly took her to Klein’s building. As she navigated the rest of the route, she contacted Charles Monroe.

Instead of the slickly handsome sex expert, the pretty blond doctor he married came on the ’link. “Hi, Dallas.”

“Hey, Louise. I thought I tagged Charles.”

“You did. His ’link was here on the counter and he’s making me breakfast.”

“Sorry to interrupt.”

“No problem. And his hands are free again. We’re looking forward to seeing you tomorrow, seeing everyone. Here’s Charles.”

“Morning, Lieutenant Sugar.”

“Charles. Just a quick question. Do you know or can you find out about an LC who started street level maybe ten years ago, and young when she did. Probably just legal. Goes by Lucille.”

“Seriously?”

“I’ve got a little more. Mixed race, probably Black/Asian, Avenue A turf back at the start, then moved up, but likely stayed in the same area. And before you ask, no I don’t know how many LCs work Alphabet City, but I figure it’s a lot. I’m just looking for one. She’s not in trouble, but I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I never worked that area, but I know some who did or do. I’ll see what I can find out.”

“Appreciate it. What’re you making?”

“Honeymoon pancakes.”

“How long’s the honeymoon?” she wondered as they’d been married for months.

“I’m looking at forever.”

“Nice thought, and thanks in advance for the help. See you,” she added, clicking off as she zipped to the curb a block from Asshole Joe’s.

She climbed out, calculating. Pizza joint wouldn’t be open yet, and neither would the arcade. She might be able to try Gregman’s sooner, and she’d get a line on any recent purchases for high-dollar tickets to Giants games.

Or better yet, she thought, when she spotted her partner in her puffy purple coat and pink cowboy boots flooding out of the subway stairs with a million others.

Eve fell into step beside her. “Good timing.”

“It was like being held hostage in an airless box with a bunch of refugees. They really need more trains on this line.”

“Routines,” Eve said. “They’re comfort, habit, patterns. Everybody’s got some. Routines, favorite things. I’ve got a list of Reinhold’s. I need you to check on tickets, premium tickets for Giants games. That’s football.”

“I know it’s football. I like football. Everybody wears those tight pants and has big shoulders.”

“They’re shoulder pads, so that’s false vision.”

“I like it fine.”

“Gregman’s,” Eve continued. “In Reinhold’s old neighborhood. Sells pistachio floats.”

“Yuck. I draw the line at green floats. But I got it.”

“I’ve got Charles doing a reach-out for an LC named Lucille. She reputedly broke Reinhold’s cherry, as well as giving him and his pals discount rates on bjs. Reinhold and Asshole Joe here may still use her from time to time. Then there’s Jangles, an arcade in Times Square—and some gamer named Bruno who beat Reinhold in a tournament. A beer joint nearby called Tap It.”

“How’d we miss all that?”

“We didn’t,” Eve said as she pulled out her badge for Joe’s building’s security plate. “It’s called follow-up. Mal remembered a little more when I tried the routine angle. Meanwhile, Roarke’s working the money angle.”

“So’s McNab, that and the ID. It’s slow going, Dallas.”

“We’ll be pushing it. And we’ll be pushing the location. He’s here somewhere—in someplace plush, you bet your ass.”

She held her badge for a scan. “Lieutenant Dallas, Detective Peabody. We’re here to talk to Joe Klein.”

ID verified. Mr. Klein has not cleared you for entry.

Authorization is required.

Eve rolled her shoulders, smiled fiercely. A workout, a swim, a new angle—and now busting electronic chops.

Not a bad start to the morning.

“Listen, you worthless piece of e-crap,” she began.