Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(109)

“I’d say you’d be better off trying for at least a couple hours sleep, but you won’t. All right then, if I can be your Peabody, you can be my drone.”

It didn’t take long for her to figure out he tossed her busywork. Still, he kept her busy, and maybe it saved him some time and trouble.

She knew when he had the bit between his teeth because he muttered, swore, and his Irish thickened.

For herself she settled into the mind-numbing job of scanning codes, looking for—or waiting while the computer looked for—matches or patterns.

If one popped, she toggled it to Roarke so he could do whatever came next. She had no idea what the whatever might be, but a few times when she toggled something over, Roarke made the kind of noises she interpreted as progress.

She wondered if brains actually could spill out of the ears, and she sent Roarke another section.

“Ah well now, that could be useful,” he mumbled. “Pry this bleeding bitch open just a bit more. Aye, that’s clever, but not fecking clever enough, is it then?”

She rose, turned to the friggie because she realized she’d finally hit a point she’d never believed possible to hit. She couldn’t handle more coffee.

She got water for both of them.

“And there, you shagging, cross-eyed whoremonger, I’ve got it.”

Half asleep, too used to his mutters to think anything of them—though whoremonger was new—she held out the water.

He flicked her away. “Not now. There it is. Hiding out, tucked away in a bunch of bollocks. Not clients, no, they’re fucking not clients.”

She heard it now—not frustration or inching progress, but pleasure edging toward triumph. “Who?”

“Not done. Quiet. It wants to go sick if I get too close, and we won’t have that. Standard virus is all it is. Just kill it, and then . . . There you are.”

“Who?” she demanded again. He shot whatever he’d found to a wall screen.

“Paul Rogan,” he read. “Along with his wife, his daughter—and considerable salient information. Then the same for Wayne Denby.”

“Target list, two more. Jesus Christ. Tyber Chenowitz—wife, six-year-old son. That address—”

“Is all but around the corner.”

“Send the second—Miller Filbert, Lower East—to Baxter. Now, now, now. How fast can you get me eyes and ears on Chenowitz?”

“I’ve what you need in the lab here.”

“Get it, then let’s move.”

As Roarke shot the data to Baxter, Eve dragged out her comm. “Alert Lieutenant Salazar,” she demanded on the move. “Two locations require E and B units.” She snapped information to Dispatch as she bolted down the steps, then contacted Baxter herself while she dragged on her coat.

He didn’t bother to block video, so she got a good shot of his bare ass—not bad—as he scrambled out of bed.

“Got the address. On my way in five.”

“Get Trueheart, get there. Tag Feeney for eyes and ears. I’ve got another one I’m handling. Salazar’s alerted. Wear vests and helmets. I’m sending uniforms, both locations. The van’s a black Essex Sprinter, new model. Echo - Zulu - Baker - Five - Seven - Eight. Watch for it. Do not enter until Salazar’s team clears. That’s an order. Move.”

She turned when Roarke jogged down to her with a field bag.

“I can get your eyes and ears, and I can scan for explosives.”

“Even better.” She ran outside, jumped in the car. “Here’s what we do. Go fast, but quiet. If he’s there, if he has them, sirens might make him cut his losses. If he’s crazy enough to hit another without Iler, knowing how close we are, he’s crazy enough to kill the family. He’ll sure as hell try to use them as shields.”

Roarke punched into vertical rather than waiting for the gates to open fully.

“I think I know the house. It’s back off the street and gated, like ours. I’ll need to bypass the security as, again, if he’s there, he may have reset it as a precaution.”

It took under two minutes to get there. Roarke pulled up out of the range of the gate cameras.

“I’m going to jam them long enough for me to bypass. We’ll go over the gate, then I’ll reset.”

When he got out, she contacted Dispatch, ordering backup to wait outside the gate until she cleared them through.

“Done.” Roarke slid behind the wheel again, took vertical over the iron gates. Reengaged the gate system.

He stopped in the shadows.

The house, about twenty feet back from the gates, stood three stories, with pillars framing a wide front porch. A large section of the roof jutted out, flattened. She could see in the security lights the rise of dwarf trees.

She’d seen that roof garden, she realized, from the roof dome of their own house. A spilling water feature down the west wall, a kind of fancy shed she imagined held tools for the raised wooden beds full of growing things and color in the spring and summer. Chairs and umbrella tables in season, too, so to enjoy the views in the garden and beyond. Big colorful pots to hold the trees and viney things winding up decorative supports.

No lights on the roof now, or on the main floor. But she noted them filtering through some of the windows on the second floor.

“There’s a vehicle around the side—I can see the lights bouncing off the chrome bumper, but I can’t get a good look. Work on the alarms, the eyes and ears. I’m going to move closer, check it out.”