Vengeance in Death

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"We're nearly set up here, Commander. If he calls, we'll be ready."

"If he calls, Lieutenant, and if he follows the same pattern he used to abduct O'Leary."

"He used the same pattern when he contacted Brian Kelly this morning." Beneath the range of the 'link monitor, she jerked a hand so that McNab would stop the chatter. Christ, the man ran his mouth at light speed. "We can take him down here, Commander. All he has to do is move in this direction."

"You better hope he does, and quickly, Dallas, or both of us are going to get our butts singed."

"I planted the bait. He'll take it."

"Contact me the minute you hear from him."

"You'll be the first," she murmured as the screen went blank. "You guys want to keep it down? This isn't the damn party suite."

McNab and two EDD drones were chirping away as they set up equipment in the bedroom that was the temporary command center. Eve worried that she'd thrown this task force together too quickly, but time was the enemy. There were tracers and bypass units, three sets of porta-links, all with headsets and voice mufflers. Recorders were set to clock on with the first beep of the first 'link. McNab had already interfaced it with her office unit.

She'd had all the equipment brought from Central in a delivery van. If her man had the hotel under surveillance, all he would have seen was yet another commercial vehicle pulling into the hotel's rear dock.

No uniforms, no black and whites.

Six cops were on surveillance in the lobby posing as bellstaff, clerks, maintenance. A detective from her squad had taken over for the doorman. She had two more in the kitchen as line chefs, another two covering the penthouse floor as housekeeping staff.

The man power and equipment were eating a moon-sized hole in the departmental budget. If it went wrong, there would be hell to pay, and she'd be the one to pay it.

She wasn't going to let it go wrong.

Restless, she moved out into the spacious parlor. The bank of windows was privacy screened there, as were the bedroom windows. Only Roarke, as owner of the hotel, and his manager were aware of the infiltration of police. At two p.m., one hour after the flight from Dublin landed at Kennedy, another cop would check in to the hotel as Brian Kelly.

It was going to work. All he had to do was call Eve's 'link.

Why the hell didn't he call?

Roarke came in from the second bedroom and saw her frowning at the screened windows. "You've covered all the details, Eve."

"I've gone over it and over it. He can't wait long to move on Brian. He won't risk Brian contacting you on his own and finding out it's all a scam. On his call to Jennie he got her to promise she wouldn't try to contact anyone, that she wouldn't speak to anyone unless it came through you. But Brian wouldn't commit, wouldn't promise anything."

"And if our man knows him at all, he'd know Brian tends to do as he chooses."

"That's right, so he'll arrange for the meet quickly. He's already got the place where he'll kill him set up. And he's not going to want to take chances. Brian's a tough, muscular man in his prime. And he's street smart. He'd put up a hell of a fight."

"He'd have to be taken by surprise," Roarke agreed, "caught off guard."

"Exactly. My guess is he plans to do it all right here. Brian'll be expecting a driver, a messenger, a liaison for you, so he'll open the door. He would have to get a tranq in him then and there, quick, quiet."

"Lieutenant," Roarke said and held out a hand, and when Eve automatically put hers in it, he smiled and squeezed. "If I'd had a minipopper in my hand, you'd be tranqed just that fast and easy. They were popular in certain unsettled areas during the twenties, only they were most often laced with strychnine rather than a dozer. Shaking hands became quite unfashionable for several years."

"You're a fount of the most disturbing trivia."

"Wonderful icebreaker at parties."

"He should have called by now." She spun away to pace. "With each one he's narrowed the time between the murder and the earliest possibility of discovery. He wants me to get close, really close. It makes him feel more superior. It's more of a rush when he knows I'm right behind him, while the blood's still fresh."

"He may be planning to call from here, once he's locked in his prey for this round."

"I've thought of that. It won't matter. We'll still get him. He'll have to call this room. The cop who's posing as Brian for check-in is a good match in coloring and build. McNab's already added the jazz to trip the voice into Brian's tone over the 'link. And he's got the video fuzzy. But he's not going to move until he calls me. He wants to make sure I'm ready."

She looked at her wrist unit, swore. "Jackison's going to check in as Brian in fifteen minutes. Where is that son of a – "

The second the bedroom 'link beeped, she was streaking inside. "Back off," she ordered. "All porta-links into the next room. No chatter. Hologram backdrop, McNab."

"Engaged." He nodded as an imaged reproduction of her office flickered on around her. "Sitting pretty, Dallas."

"Trace this bastard," she ordered and answered. "Dallas, Homicide."

"So glad you're feeling better, Lieutenant."

It was the same voice, the same swimming colors on screen. "Did you miss me? Sending me flowers was such a nice touch, especially since blowing me up didn't quite work out for you."

"You were so… discourteous in your statement to the press. I found your lack of manners very rude."

"You know what I find rude, pal? Taking someone's life before they've finished using it. That kind of thing really ticks me off."

"I'm sure we could debate the value of our personal annoyances for quite a while, but I know how desperately you're trying to tape this transmission, with your inferior equipment and your under-educated technicians."

"I know a couple e-detectives who would find that statement very rude."

His laughter came through the speaker, genuine and amused. And, she thought as her ear cocked, young.

"Oh, under different circumstances I'm sure I could be very fond of you, Lieutenant. If not for your deplorable lack of taste. What do you see in that Irish street rat you married?"

"He's great in bed." Hoping he had clear video, she leaned back and smiled. "I've got an expert's profile here that says you're likely lacking in that arena. Maybe you should try some Stay-Up. It's available at your local pharmacy everywhere."

His breathing hitched once clearly through the speakers. "I am pure of heart and body, sanctified."

"Is that another word for impotent?''

"You bitch. You don't know anything about me. Do you think I want to lie with you, is that it? Maybe I will, when this is over, maybe God will demand it. 'Better to spill seed in the belly of a whore than on the ground.' "

"Have trouble jacking off, too? That's rough. Maybe if you tried to keep your mother out of your head when you're working on yourself you'd finish off and have a cheerier personality."

"Don't you speak of my mother." His voice went ragged and thin, wavering on a high note.

Bingo, Eve thought. Mommy equals female authority figure.

"What's she like? Is she still yanking your chain, pal, or is she at home, keeping the lights burning without a clue how you spend your free time?" She thought of the ritual she'd witnessed just that morning in a little church near the cliffs. "Do you still go to Mass with her every Sunday? Is that where you go to find your vengeful god?"

"The blood of my enemies flows like tainted wine into Hell. You'll know such pain before I kill you."

"You already tried once. You missed. Why don't you come closer. Take me on, one on one. Do you have the balls for it?"

"When the time comes. I won't be seduced by the words of a harlot to stray from the path."

His voice broke, shuddered, making Eve tilt her head as if to catch the nuance. Was he crying?

"No time like the present."

"My mission isn't completed. It isn't over. I say when, I tell you when. The fourth damned soul meets God's judgment today. Two hours." He let out a long, shuddering breath. "Two hours is all you've got to find the pig and save him from slaughter. 'By his own iniquities the wicked man will be caught, in the meshes of his own sin he will be held fast; He will die from lack of discipline, through the greatness of his folly he will be lost.' "

"Proverbs again? There's never any variety with you."

"All that is necessary for life is found in the Bible. He's walking into my arms, a squealing pig into the land of sleek and pampered dogs and underpaid nannies."

"That's not much of a clue. Am I getting too close for you to play a fair game?"

"The game's fair enough, but here's another: The sun sets behind, and before it drops to night, the next Judas will pay dearly for his betrayal. Two hours. Starting now."

"Give me good news, McNab." Eve demanded when the transmission ended.

McNab looked up, his green eyes shining. "I got him."

Eve rose slowly, disengaging the hologram herself. "Don't toy with me, McNab."

"Transmission source is sector D, grid fifty-four."

Eve strode over to the chart, scanned quickly. "Son of a bitch, the Luxury Towers is in that grid. The fucker's in there. He's working out of the building were he did the first murder."

"Do we move on him there?" Peabody demanded.

Eve held up a hand to halt the questions until she could think it through. "He said I had less than two hours. He doesn't rush through his work, so he'll want at least one of those hours in here. He'll be contacting this room any minute. Did Jackison get in?"

"He's in the next room."

"All right, let's give our boy a little time. He's already got his tools packed. He doesn't leave anything to the last minute. He'll get his transpo, and he won't break any traffic laws getting here. He's on a timetable. We need a second team over at the Luxury Towers, but I don't want them moving in. If he's working with anyone and they stay behind, they could tip him off."

She pulled out her communicator, contacting Whitney to report and outline strategy for the next stage. Her blood was cool, her mind clear as she began snapping out orders.

She broke off when the room fax beeped. "He's made contact, Commander. I'm reading it now. He's giving instructions for the mark to expect a uniformed driver within fifteen minutes. He wants the mark to wait in the room. This indicates the hit is meant to go down here, as anticipated. Mark is requested to release the elevator when signaled by 'link from the lobby. Three beeps. Transmission's ended. He'll be moving now."

"A second team will stake out the Luxury Towers. I can give you two detectives from the Homicide Division and three officers."

"In civilian attire, Commander. And I need at least one man from EDD to run a trace sweep."

"You already have three there, Dallas. You're straining the resources."

She set her teeth, wishing desperately to be in two places at once. "I'll send McNab to coordinate with the second team."

"I'll squeeze out a van with the necessary equipment. Keep this frequency open." ' "Yes, sir. McNab."

Insult radiated from him. "You're kicking me now, when it's going down?"

"I need you to find his. hole."

"He's coming here. We can scoop him up."

"I need you to find his hole," she repeated, "because God help us if he gets past us and crawls back in it. You find it, McNab, and you block it off. That's an order, Detective."

Steaming, he grabbed his coat. "Homicide figures all EDD's good for is ghost work. Fine when you don't have the answers, but when you do it's back to the recorders."

"I haven't got time for temper tantrums. See that the other e-men here are fully briefed, then turn it over." She brushed by him and into the parlor. "Everybody out of this room but Jackison. Take your positions. Weapons on low stun. We want him coherent."

She lifted her eyebrows at Roarke. "Civilians, in the spare room." She picked up one of the remote monitors. "You can watch."

"I'm sure it would be entertaining. Lieutenant, you've just shorted yourself one e-man. I'll take his position. Bend the rules a little," he said before she could object. "It'll do you more good than having me twiddle my thumbs." She had reason to know he was better with the equipment than the two men she had left. "First bedroom," she decided. "You're better off where I can keep an eye on you anyway. Jackison, stay clear of the door. When he rings in, wait for my signal to answer. Peabody, I want you at the door of the second bedroom. Use the security peep. Keep alert."

She spoke into her communicator as she walked back into the control room. "Team A, in position. Team B. Team C. It's going down here. Observe but do not approach or delay any uniformed drivers. Suspect will employ house or palm ' link on arrival and use penthouse elevator. Repeat, observe only. No one moves on him. We want him up here. When he's boxed, you'll get my signal and close in on this sector."

"I love it when you talk cop," Roarke murmured in her ear.

"No civilian chatter." Eve planted herself in front of the monitors, scanning each to satisfy herself that all her troops were in position. "He's coming," she murmured. "Any minute now. Come on, you little prick, walk into my arms."

She saw McNab exit the elevator into the lobby. Still steamed, she thought, noting his grim face and stiff posture. He was going to have to learn the value of teamwork. She watched him scan the lobby, and did so herself.

A droid walked a pair of silky, long-haired dogs across the colorful tiles. A woman in a severe black business suit sat on the circular bench surrounding the central fountain and snarled into a palm 'link. A bellman guided an electric cart loaded with luggage toward the main doors. A woman came through them, leading a toy poodle on a silver leash. Both woman and dog were sleekly groomed, with matching silver bows decking their hair. Behind her came a domestic droid loaded down with shopping bags and boxes.

Rich tourist, Eve thought. Early Christmas shopping.

Then she saw him. He came in directly behind the droid, wearing the long dark coat, a chauffeur's cap pulled low, sunshades concealing his eyes. "He's in." She barely breathed it. "Possible target entering through main doors. Male, five-ten, black coat, gray hat, sunshades. He's carrying a black valise. Team leaders copy?''

"Copy that, Lieutenant. In sights. Suspect is taking palm 'link from left coat pocket, moving left of fountain now."

Then it all went wrong. The poodle started it. Eve saw that for herself. The little dog began to bark manically, broke from her mistress and streaked, yapping and snarling, toward the pair of Afghans.

A vicious little battle ensued, full of noise and fury. In her rush to save her poodle, the woman with the silver ribbons raced over the tiles and shoved past the businesswoman who'd risen to watch the commotion, nearly sending her into the fountain.

The businesswoman's palm 'link went flying and cracked directly between the surprised eyes of a cop in bellman's gear. He went down like a felled tree.

There were screams and curses, a major crash when one of the participants rammed a table holding a duet of crystal vases. Three bellmen dashed to assist, the first to arrive receiving a slash of canine teeth for his trouble. One of the Afghans bounded clear and raced toward the main doors and escape.

The dog caught McNab at the back of the knees and sent him headlong into the door he'd just been approaching. Outside it, Eve saw one of her men reach under his doorman's coat for his weapon.

"Keep your weapons out of view. Goddamn it, don't draw your weapons. It's a fucking dogfight."

But she saw, because her attention was focused on the target throughout the thirty-second battle, the exact moment they were made. The palm 'link was shoved back in his pocket, his stance went stiff with shock, and he bolted.

"He's made us. Suspect is proceeding on foot to the south entrance. Block south entrance," she ordered as she ran from the suite and toward the elevator. "Repeat. Block the south entrance. Suspect's rabbiting, consider him armed and dangerous." She didn't bother to glance over when Roarke pushed into the elevator with her.

"He's nearly to the doors," Roarke told her, and she saw now that he'd had the foresight to grab up one of the mini-monitors.

"Ellsworth, your location's hot."

"I see him, Dallas. I've got him."

The instant the elevator doors opened, she was streaking across the lobby. Ellsworth was inside the south doors, and out cold. "Tranq'd him. Jesus." She pulled her weapon and went through the doors.

"Suspect is out of controlled area. I've got an officer down at the south entrance. Suspect is on foot – "

She heard the scream as she raced for the corner. He was dragging a woman out of a car. Even as Eve reached the curb and brought up her weapon, he'd tossed her onto the street and had dived behind the wheel.

Pivoting, she pounded to the sportster she'd parked at the entrance.

"I'll drive." Roarke beat her to the car by a stride. "I know the car better."

With no time to argue, she jumped into the passenger seat. "Suspect's jacked a vehicle, is heading east on Seventy-fourth in a white minijet, N-Y-C license C-H-A-R-L-I-E. That's Charles Abel Roger Loser Ice Even. This is Dallas in pursuit. I need ground and air support. He's got a four-block lead, now approaching Lex."

Roarke shoved the sportster into turbo, rocketed.

"Make that three blocks," she murmured, eyes straight ahead when they swung around a commuter tram with a layer of paint to spare.

"He didn't boost a snail," Roarke commented, zigzagging through traffic without a single tap for the brakes. "Those minijets have muscle if he knows how to use it. But he shouldn't be able to outrun us in the long haul."

As he approached a red light, Roarke gauged the timing, punched for power, and streaked his way through the crossing traffic, leaving tire squeals and blasting horns in his wake.

"Not if we live through it. Suspect is turning south on Lexington, heading downtown. Where is my goddamn air support?" she barked into the communicator.

"Air support is being deployed." Whitney's words sliced through like shards of glass. "Ground units heading in from east and west, should join your pursuit at Forty-fifth and Lex."

"I'm in a civilian vehicle, Commander," she told him, then finished with a description. "We're less than two blocks behind him now and closing. Suspect crossing Fiftieth."

She barely hissed when a maxi-bus lumbered across their path. Roarke punched for vertical, sending the car in a long sweeping rise that had Eve's stomach pitching. They leapfrogged over the bus and dived for the street.

But the bus had blocked their view just long enough. "He's turned off. Damn it. Which way?"

"Right," Roarke decided. "He was shifting to the right lane before the fucking bus."

"Suspect believed to now be traveling west on Forty-ninth. Ground and air support adjust direction to pursue."

The light changed as they reached the corner. Roarke readied to whip for the turn. New Yorkers being what they were, pedestrians surged forward into the street as the light beamed yellow and, in defiance of the electric blue bullet bearing down on them, didn't give an inch.

"Idiots, assholes." Eve barely had time to finish the thought before Roarke was airborne again and skimming down the sidewalk. "Don't kill anyone, for Christ's sake."

He nearly nipped the outer edge of a glide-cart umbrella, terrorized a trio of Hasidic Jews carrying their briefcases of gems to market. A Bosc pear heaved by the cart operator sailed past Eve's window.

She caught sight of the fishtailing rear of the minijet as it rounded the corner on Fifth Avenue. The glide-cart on that corner wasn't as lucky. She saw the unit upend and the operator go sprawling.

"We're losing ground here. He's on Fifth now." She checked the skies and ground her teeth when she spotted media copters rather than cops. "Commander, I need my air support."

"A hitch at Control. Support delayed. Deployment in five minutes."

"That's too late, too goddamn late," she murmured, and felt little satisfaction when she heard the scream of sirens approaching from the rear.

"We'll take the long shot," Roarke decided. His smile was as sharp and deadly as a laser when he punched the sportster into sharp vertical, into full-speed nose lift that had the blood draining out of Eve's face and her fingers digging hard into the buttery leather of her seat.

"Oh Christ, I hate this."

"Just hang on. We go up and diagonal, we'll cut his lead."

And over twenty-story buildings at approximately a hundred miles an hour.

The street dropped away as they rose up into the arena of tourist blimps and air tram commuters. Eve got a much closer look at the New York City Tourist Board's pride and joy than she cared to. The monotonous recording touting the joys of the Diamond District blared in her ears.

"There!" She had to shout over the noise, pointed due west. "Blue minijet. He's caught in a jam on Fifth, between Forty-sixth and Forty-fifth." Then she spotted another, half a block ahead of the first. "Shit, there are two of them. Take us down, park it on the sidewalk if you have to. All units, two blue minijets on Fifth, both stopped. One between Forty-sixth and Forty-fifth, the second between Forty-fifth and Forty-fourth. Block southbound traffic on Fifth at Forty-third."

Her stomach tripped over her throat as Roarke took them into a dive. He leveled off ten feet above street level, set down with barely a shimmy in a maxi-bus lane directly across from the northernmost minijet.

Eve leaped out, aimed her weapon at the driver. "NYPSD. Out of the car, keep your hands where I can see them."

The driver was male, mid-twenties. He was wearing a lime green Day-Glo jacket and matching pegged pants. Sweat poured down his face as he got out of the car. "Don't stun me, for God's sake, I'm just a runner, that's all. Just making a living."

"In the position." She reached out, spun him around. "Hands on the roof of the car."

"I don't want my wife to know about this. I want a lawyer," he demanded as she patted him down. "I've only been doing runs for six months. Give me a fucking break."

She dragged her restraints from her pocket, dragged his arms behind his back. Even as she snapped them on, she knew he wasn't her man.

"Move one inch from this spot and I'll zap you unconscious."

She started off at a jog, then slowed as she watched Roarke walk back toward her from the other car. "All I got is an illegals runner with the brains of a toadstool."

"The other car's empty," he told her. "He's ditched it." Jaw set, he scanned the street crowded with vehicular and pedestrian traffic. Three criss-crossing sky-glides were jammed with people. Grand Central was a crosstown block away. "We lost him."