Promises in Death (In Death #28)(80)

“Life has to be.” Morris stepped back from the board he’d set in the center of the room. “Or there’s no point.”

“Okay, wait. Wait.” She had to think. “Until four. But if we pinpoint Sandy’s location, or something equally relevant at three-fifty-freaking-nine—”

“We’ll cross that bridge,” Roarke finished. “Give me what you have.” He took the disc she gave him. “Feeney and McNab? We’ll use the computer lab then. Send them along when they get here.”

As impatience rubbed against guilt, Eve strode after him. “Listen, did I screw anything up—any important anything—by interrupting?”

“Oh, what’s a few million lost now and then in the grand scheme? I’ll try to win it back in Vegas.”

“Oh God. Oh my God.”

Laughing, he caught her horrified face in his hands. “I’m having you on, though I shouldn’t let you off that hook so easily. It’s fine. But annoying, so you’ll be scheduling in that groveling. Now go away. I have other things to see to, besides your e-work, before I leave.”

Sure. Fine. She went back to work.

“Nothing,” Baxter told her. “I checked on the All-Points. We got a couple of hits, but neither of them turned out to be Sandy. Morris did a recheck on his accounts and cards.”

“Still no activity. I can help Baxter with the search, the transportation.”

She nodded, went back to her time line. When she completed it, as she posted it on her board, her e-team walked in.

She stared at Feeney. “What are you wearing? Not you,” she said to McNab. “I never expect otherwise from you.”

“This is my lucky shirt.” Feeney jutted out his chin.

The lucky shirt was sea-sick green, and covered with maniacally grinning pink flamingos. On his explosion of hair he wore a black ball cap that had another flamingo leering from the bill.

“Jesus, Feeney, no man gets lucky dressed like that.”

“Not that kind of lucky.” He shot Baxter a steely glare when the detective hooted. “I got a wife, don’t I? This shirt has a history. So far, it’s won me eight hundred and a quarter.”

“It can’t be worth it. Never mind. Comp lab. Roarke’s already there. In brief,” she began, and gave them the bare bones.

“I think that shirt burned my corneas,” she muttered when they left her office.

“E-geeks. What can you do?”

She glanced over at Baxter’s comment, and saw Morris, stationed beside him, smile. “Run that auto for a minute. Take a look at the time line.” She gestured to the board. “Alex Ricker contacts Roarke at seven-thirty. Summerset tells Alex Roarke will get back to him. Roarke contacts Alex at just after eight, and they set up the meet. Transmission runs eight minutes. Meet at Coney Island at ten. Meet lasts round about thirty minutes. According to Alex, he made two stops before returning to the penthouse. The first, his antique store in Tribeca, which is where I bet the unregistered was taken before our search. He left there approximately thirteen-thirty, and kept a business lunch appointment—verified—in midtown. He didn’t return home until sixteen hundred. He states Sandy was in the penthouse at that time. They talked briefly, and during that conversation Alex mentioned that the driver was having the car washed and serviced.”

“Bet he started sweating,” Baxter said.

“He can’t get to the driver until after seventeen hundred. He returns to the penthouse according to the time stamp on the security disc, at seventeen-forty-three. And yeah, he looks a little sweaty. He may have tagged his contact then, but he for damn sure did when Roarke contacted the penthouse and informed Alex that I’d be around the next morning with some follow-up questions. That’s at nineteen-oh-five. It’s too much. Too many things leaning in. Still, he doesn’t leave for another hour. Time to get instructions, grab what he needs most.”

“You can’t know how much cash he might have had,” Morris pointed out. “His own, or what Alex might have had in the place.”

“It couldn’t be much, couldn’t be enough. Alex keeps funds in the penthouse, in a safe, but it’s still there. Sandy couldn’t open the safe without it signaling Alex. It’s programmed. Enough, we’ll say enough, for him to get out of the city. Maybe hole up until he can access more, make arrangements. It’s all rushed, and he’s methodical.”

Panic, panic, Eve thought again. What do I do, where do I go?

“Maybe he has a credit account Alex didn’t know about, and we haven’t found yet. Maybe. Charge the transpo,” she calculated, “and into the wind. But if so, we’ll find it, and we’ll track him. He can’t function without funds.”

“Reports have been coming in from the locals on some of the hot spots. No sign of him, no sign he’s come and gone.”

Eve nodded at Baxter. “And I’m betting he’d leave one. He’s never had to run before, so he doesn’t know how. He’s lived a privileged life. He won’t last without the privilege.” She paused, frowned. “Where the hell is Trueheart?”

“Ah, he was en route, but you know, Vegas. He’s making a quick detour. I’ve got to have proper attire, don’t I?”

“You sent him to pack for you?”