Faithless in Death (In Death, #52)(57)

“Oh, Nadine’s book! It looks mag. And, you know, important. Look, she signed it to you. ‘Dallas, My partner in crime. Nadine.’ Oh, oh, and she dedicated it to us! All of us. She’s got all our names here, everyone in the division, and Roarke, too. And Whitney, and everybody who was on that investigation. ‘For their valor,’ it says.”

That drew Eve to the desk to read over Peabody’s shoulder. “Okay, she gets points for that. Now close that, because she gave me more than a book.”

She filled Peabody in.

“If Nadine has research, it’s going to add. And she’ll dig more now.”

“Yeah, she will.” Drinking coffee, Eve sat on the corner of her desk. “The fact they made her so fast means they do some heavy screening on potential members. Whitney had more.”

While Peabody washed down the hash with fizzy, Eve outlined her briefing with Whitney.

“Jesus, Dallas, if they actually took out a federal agent …”

“They’re hiding something big. The Realignment center’s big, but if it’s located inside a sovereign nation, the NYPSD can’t do much about it. Interpol, maybe.”

“Proof—not just speculation—but proof—it exists, that people—and minors—are forced to undergo all that? It’s going to turn most people hard against them.”

“Yeah, and a lot of those people would have deep pockets. Still, bigger than that, I think. Or if not bigger, just more.”

“We’ve got a few possibles on the searches and matches,” Peabody told her. “One match from Gwen’s list to a woman who works as a potter in SoHo with a connection to Natural Order. Her brother was a member.”

“Was?”

“Whereabouts unknown—for two years now. There’s a guy, Tribeca, a member in good standing along with his wife. He’s also employed by Natural Order as a VP in their Social Media Outreach department. Three assault charges, all in his twenties. He’s thirty-five now, and no bumps for six years. He was a patient of Oliver Huffman. He has three children—ages five, three, two, all delivered by Paula Huffman. His wife has professional mother status.”

“Okay. So they’re all tight.”

“The last is East Village, female, current member—member for eight years. She’s a professional mother of four—one set of twins—married to another member, a microbiologist, for seven years. Gwen listed her as her first. She’s twenty-eight, so a few years older than Gwen. One arrest right after she turned twenty-one. Aggravated assault, which she claimed was self-defense. Charges dropped—and a quick run on the public defender who got them dropped? A member of the order.”

“Good work. We’ll find more, but this is good work. Let’s go talk to all three before we jump over to Connecticut to tackle Wilkey.”

“He may not see us. We’d be out of our jurisdiction anyway. Should I let the locals know we’re going to the HQ?”

“What are the odds Wilkey made sure he has at least one officer inside the local PSD?”

“Really good odds, now that you say it.”

“He may not see us, but if we try to make an appointment to talk to him, or alert the locals, he’ll know we’re coming. Let’s not give him too much time to prepare.”

Eve paused in the bullpen. “Peabody and I are in the field, likely through the end of shift. Anybody needs anything—”

Reineke shot up his hand with a “Yo!”

Eve tried, really tried, to ignore his flamingo-pink socks as he swung his feet off his desk. “Just need you to sign off on this.”

She scanned the paperwork he offered, scrawled her signature with her finger on the tablet. Then looked at him.

“Do you seriously coordinate your socks with the ties?”

“It’s the little things, boss. It’s the little things that add some ups to your day.”

“Anything else, contact me. Peabody, let’s go.”

“It’s kind of cute,” Peabody commented as they hit the glides. “The socks and ties. I mean, sure, Jenkinson’s ties are mongo bad, but so mongo they’re kind of endearing.”

“They make my eyes sting.”

But since she’d just signed off on a case they’d closed, a very nasty slice and dice, she’d give them their ups.

“We’ll take Tribeca first. Professional mother of three under the age of six is probably home.”

“That would be Marcia Piper—spouse of Lawrence. Age twenty-eight. She was a model—very successful in advertising, billboards. They’re both Caucasian.”

“The women, especially, get married really young.”

“Yeah, that’s a pattern I’m seeing,” Peabody agreed. “Early to midtwenties. Another pattern is having a child inside the first year to year and a half. Then professional mother status or some sort of work connected to the group.”

“Follows.” Eve considered as they worked their way down. “Women are made to have and raise kids, serve their husbands as well as the order. The younger they are, the easier they are to indoctrinate—if they didn’t grow up in a Natural Order family—and manipulate.”

“Wow. I’m digging back—and she’s just gorgeous. Being gorgeous and photogenic earned her six and a half to seven million a year the last couple years before she got married. Now, with her PM status and what her husband makes with New Order, they pull in less than a quarter of that. Not chump change, sure, but a lot to give up. Not just the money, but the career, you know?”