Midnight in Death (In Death #7.5)(18)

How much time did Carl have? she wondered. Another day, by her guess. If Palmer was running true to form, he would begin to enjoy his work too much to rush through it. But sometime within the next twenty-four hours, she believed he’d try for Justine Polinsky.

While her machine worked, she leaned back and closed her eyes. Nearly midnight, she thought. Another day. Feeney was working his end. She was confident they’d have a line on the equipment soon, then there were the houses to check. They had the make, model, and license of his vehicle.

He’d left a trail, she thought. He wanted her to follow it, wanted her close. The son of a bitch.

It’s you and me, isn’t it, Dave? she thought as her mind started to drift. How fast can I be, and how clever? You figure it’ll make it all the sweeter when you’ve got me in that cage. It’s because you want that so bad that you’re making mistakes. Little mistakes.

I’m going to hang you with them.

She slid into sleep while her computer hummed and woke only when she felt herself being lifted.

“What?” Reflexively she reached for the weapon she’d already unharnessed.

“You need to be in bed.” Roarke held her close as he left the office.

“I was just resting my eyes. I’ve got data coming in. Don’t carry me.”

“You were dead out, the data will be there in the morning, and I’m already carrying you.”

“I’m getting closer, but not close enough.”

He’d seen the financial data on her screen. “I’ll take a look through the accounts in the morning,” he told her as he laid her on the bed.

“I’ve got it covered.”

He unpinned her badge, set it aside. “Yes, Sheriff, but money is my business. Close it down a while.”

“He’ll be sleeping now.” She let Roarke undress her. “In a big, soft bed with clean sheets. Dave likes to be clean and comfortable. He’ll have a monitor in the bedroom so he can watch Neissan. He likes to watch before he goes to sleep. He told me.”

“Don’t think.” Roarke slipped into bed beside her, gathered her close.

“He wants me.”

“Yes, I know.” Roarke pressed his lips to her hair as much to comfort himself as her. “But he can’t have you.”

Sleep helped. She’d dropped into it like a stone and had lain on the bottom of the dreaming pool for six hours. There’d been no call in the middle of the night to tell her Carl Neissan’s body had been found.

Another day, she thought again and strode into her office. Roarke was at her desk, busily screening data.

“What are you doing?” She all but leapt to him. “That’s classified.”

“Don’t pick nits, darling. You were going too broad last night. You’ll be days compiling and rejecting all accounts under the name Palmer. You want one that shows considerable activity, large transfers, and connections to other accounts—which is, of course, the trickier part if you’re dealing with someone who understands how to hide the coin.”

“You can’t just sit down and start going through data accumulated in an investigation.”

“Of course I can. You need coffee.” He looked up briefly. “Then you’ll feel more yourself and I’ll show you what I have.”

“I feel exactly like myself.” Which, she admitted, at the moment was annoyed and edgy. She stalked to the AutoChef in the kitchen, went for an oversized mug of hot and black. The rich and real caffeine Roarke could command zipped straight through her system.

“What have you got?” she demanded when she walked back in.

“Palmer was too simple, too obvious,” Roarke began, and she narrowed her eyes.

“You didn’t think so yesterday.”

“I said check for relatives, same names. I should have suggested you try his mother’s maiden name. Riley. And here we have the account of one Palmer Riley. It was opened six years ago, standard brokerage account, managed. Since there’s been some activity over the last six months, I would assume your man found a way to access a ‘link or computer from prison.”

“He shouldn’t have been near one. How can you be sure?”

“He understands how money works, and just how fluid it can be. You see here that six months ago he had a balance of just over $1.3 million. For the past three years previous, all action was automatic, straight managed with no input from the account holder. But here he begins to make transfers. Here’s one to an account under Peter Nolan, which, by the way, is his aunt’s husband’s name on his father’s side. Overseas accounts, off-planet accounts, local New York accounts—different names, different IDs. He’s had this money for some time and he waited, sat on it until he found the way to use it.”

“When I took him down before, we froze his accounts, accounts under David Palmer. We didn’t look deeper. I didn’t think of it.”

“Why should you have? You stopped him, you put him away. He was meant to stay away.”

“If I’d cleared it all, he wouldn’t have had the backing to come back here.”

“Eve, he’d have found a way.” He waited until she looked at him. “You know that.”

“Yeah.” She let out a long breath. “Yeah, I know that. This tells me he’s been planning, he’s been shopping, he’s been juggling funds, funneling into cover accounts. I need to freeze them. I don’t think a judge is going to argue with me, not after what happened to one of their own.”