Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(101)

“Take your time,” Baxter told her. “You see a lot of faces on any given day. Remember if anyone seems a little familiar, we’ll earmark it, come back to it.”

“Not that one,” she said. Baxter moved to the next.

“Visitors’ log?” Roarke asked.

“I’m cross-checking on the portable.” Trueheart sat behind the desk. “Not just exact names, but any that use the same initials, same first or last.”

“Keep at it,” Eve ordered, then turned to Rhoda. “He may have changed hair style, color. Grown a beard, shaved one off.”

At the end of the first long round, Rhoda picked out five possibles.

“I’m worried I’ve pulled those out because they remind me of someone else.”

“Take a break,” Eve told her.

“Oh, but I—”

“You’ll come back to it fresher if you take a couple minutes. Baxter, dispense some of the smooth charm and coffee for Rhoda. Hold the sexual prowess.”

“Sometimes it just ekes out. How do you take your coffee, Remarkable Rhoda?”

“Black, thanks. When you have real, why add to it?”

“My kind of woman. You aren’t married, are you?”

“Not at the moment. You’re all trying to settle me down, and I appreciate it. Knowing I’ve had almost daily contact with one of the men who’s done all of this?” She accepted the coffee, drank. “It’s unnerving.”

“Your nerves look steady to me.” Eve glanced at Roarke. He sat, working on his PPC. Already running the five possibles, she thought.

He made an excellent Peabody.

“Let me see them again. Not him,” Rhoda said as the first displayed. “I realize now he looks a little like—and this is embarrassing—Scott Trevor from Galaxy Force.”

“You watch Galaxy Force?” Baxter shot a finger at Rhoda.

“Addicted.”

“We need to have drinks and talk. And you’re right. He could be Scott Trevor’s older cousin. How about this one?”

She studied, closed her eyes, refocused. “Could we hold that one, come back to it? I’m just not sure.”

“No problem.” Baxter switched to the next.

“There’s just something . . .” She closed her eyes again, sat quietly, then opened. “Oh. Oh, I see. He’s shaved his hair. He’s shaved his head, and there’s something, else, something, I’m not—his nose. His nose is thinner now. Thin and straight—it looks as if it’s been broken and set poorly in this picture. He usually wears sunshades, even when he comes in after dark, almost always wears them. That’s Mr. Nordon. Oliver Nordon. He visits Mr. Iler, most often in the evening so I wouldn’t see him then, but I’ve seen his name on the log. And I’ve cleared him myself when he comes during the day. Mr. Nordon.”

“Got it,” Trueheart said. “Got him. Sergeant Oliver Silverman, under Captain Iler in Seoul.”

“Sergeant Oliver Silverman,” Roarke continued, “age thirty-two at the time of the attack. Wounded therein—broken leg, severe burns on torso, arms. Ah, shrapnel damaged his genitals, resulting in partial amputation and the fitting of a prosthetics.”

“Youch,” Baxter mumbled.

“Both medical and psychiatric evaluations determined Silverman should be honorably discharged.”

“Something else there. If he’d wanted to stay in, they’d have found a place for him unless they deemed him unfit. Wounded warrior.”

Roarke nodded at Eve. “I can look deeper.”

“Later. Do you have a current ID shot of Silverman?”

“Went off the grid after discharge.”

“A lot do, Lieutenant,” Trueheart said. “Plenty of sidewalk sleepers are vets.”

“Yeah. But that’s no sidewalk sleeper. Run Nordon,” she told Roarke.

“I am. Oliver Nordon, age thirty-six, freelance security consultant, residential and commercial.” He glanced at Eve. “Good call, Lieutenant.”

“Give me an address.”

“It’s 563 West Sixty-Third.”

“Baxter, warrants for Iler and Silverman/Nordon. Search and seizures on both locations. Use Reo, she’s fast. Trueheart, I want cops—team of four—sitting on Silverman’s address five minutes ago. In body armor.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Two more uniforms to this location,” she added. She snapped into the communicator already in her hand. “Feeney, eyes and ears, 563 West Sixty-Third. Apartment number?” she asked Roarke.

He didn’t look up from his PPC. “No. Townhome, three stories.”

“You catch that?”

“I ain’t deaf,” Feeney said.

“Suspect data coming to you . . .”

“Now,” Roarke finished.

“He’ll be armed, Feeney, and he’s fucking dangerous. Full body armor for your team. I’m tagging Salazar. He’ll have explosives.”

“I’ll tap her.”

“Warrants are in the works, uniforms en route to cover. Bomb sniffers, Feeney. Nobody takes the door until the sniffers clear it. And I want residences and businesses on both sides of the target location evacuated. Baxter, status!”