Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(59)

She held up a thumb, gave it a jerk up.

“That’s desperation,” she continued. “And more impulse and stupidity. Firing a stream at a couple of cops in the middle of the Meat Packing District, with people swarming everywhere. It was a damn good shot, which tells me it’s not the first time he’s fired a stunner, which tells me—since there’s no way he’s a pro and has weapons illegal to civilians at his disposal, he’s been on the job, in the military, or part of a paramilitary deal. Possibly he’s got a collector’s license, but I’m leaning toward military. Former, and currently in the employ of one of my bigwigs as security or personal bodyguard. Something along those lines.”

She heard the hum of a healing wand, felt the mild pressure.

“Stunning you wouldn’t have accomplished anything. He’d need to finish it.”

“Yeah. I caught the movement, mostly just the movement. He’d have hit Peabody next, and she doesn’t have the magic lining. I tackled her. We both probably have some bruises from that now that I think of it. When I rolled over and up, I didn’t get a solid look again. All those people. But again, my sense is he was moving in, figuring I took her down when I fell from the stun. He’d just need to get to us, take us both out at point-blank, and get gone. Sloppy, brash and sloppy. But he thought fast, moved fast. I’m not sure I’d have caught him even without the flying toddler.”

“Security cameras must have captured him. You must have his face.”

“Not so much. Ski cap, sunshades, scarf. And he kept his head down. He’s not a complete idiot. We sent what we’ve got in, and they’ll run facial recognition. If he was in the military or on the job, we could get lucky with that. I’ve got some basics—he’s a big guy, about six four, two bucks-fifty. Strong build. Strong. I really think he played some ball. Arena Ball or football. So it’s another angle to poke at. He could’ve snapped the vic’s neck. He’s got the muscle for it.”

“And as he’d attempt to kill two cops in broad daylight, in a crowded area, the nerve and the lack of, let’s say, moral center. Turn over now, let’s see what I can do about those pretty br**sts.”

“They’ve been prettier.”

“Still mine,” he murmured, gently kissing both when she turned.

“Attached to me.”

“I take a dim view of someone who’d bruise my wife’s pretty br**sts.”

“You’re saying it like that to get a rise out of me.”

“You do happen to be my wife,” he reminded her, and used a gentle hand with the cold pack. “And they are very pretty br**sts.”

“Chuckie had a head like a brick.” But she smiled. “It feels better. Why don’t you lose all those clothes so I’m not naked all by myself?”

He gave her bad shoulder a little poke, made her hiss.

“That was mean.”

“And why I’m not naked.”

He put another cold pack on the shoulder. It hurt, she realized, but she supposed in a good way. Who knew?

“It’s Alexander/Pope/Parzarri/Ingersol or Young/Biden/Arnold/Ingersol. Or any of those with Newton. I don’t think Whitestone because he’s just too smart to—oops—discover a body on his own doorsteps with the client of his wet dreams. But any three of the WINS could access each other’s accounts. They’re just that intertwined.”

“Which one are you leaning toward?”

“That’s the thing. Alexander, Young-Sachs, and Biden are all such ass**les. And Pope’s such a measly little no-balls, he’s annoying. That colors it. They all fit neatly enough. Ingersol? He says too much, talks too fast, pushes too hard. A lot of impulse there, I think. On the other hand, Newton’s contained, genial, smooth—and that equals clever and smart to me. Somebody in this mess has to be smart. I need to push on the auditors, and that’s tomorrow. If one of them rings for me, that’ll fit the lock. But it’s just gut and circumstances without solid evidence. So I need to break one of them down, once I figure out which one.”

“Sterling Alexander’s considered a bit of a tool in some circles,” Roarke began as he ran the wand over her shoulder. “Those who respect him do so—according to those I spoke with—primarily for what he’s inherited, not what he’s done with it. The sense is he spends far too much on personal travel, income, perks while holding the line at a contrasting low end for employees.”

“None of that surprises me, but it’s good information.”

“Pope’s hardly considered at all,” Roarke continued, “but those who bother see him as the one dealing with the internal glitches, problems, numbers. Both Alexander Senior—Sterling’s father—and Pope Senior—the mother they share—hold controlling interests, though both have essentially retired. I’m told if it was discovered anything underhanded was going on inside the company, the mother would come down like the wrath of God.”

“What about Alexander Senior?”

“Apparently he’s enjoying his golf—” Roarke rose, moved into the bath. She heard the water spewing into the tub. “And his current wife. That would be wife four who’s a full half century younger.”

“Gee, could it be love?”