Apprentice in Death (In Death #43)(65)

“I have that for you,” Roarke said as he walked in. “Already sent.”

“Handy. Peabody, put it up.”

“I also ran a facial recognition on Willowby—who is actually Dwayne Mathias, fifty-three, from Bangor, Maine.”

“That’s cop thinking.”

“And you insult me,” he said, flicking a finger down the dent in her chin, “when I have a dozen pizzas on the way.”

“Pizza!”

Eve gave Peabody and her happy dance a sidelong look.

“Nobody got that dinner break,” Peabody pointed out. “I grabbed a yogurt bar, but that’s it.”

“And hungry cops may be more likely to make mistakes,” Roarke concluded.

“I thought hungry kept you lean and mean. I’m feeling mean.” Eve stared at the blueprints on screen. “But pizza sounds okay.”

Cop thinking, she mused, and he’d done the work faster than she had. Plus pizza. Hard to complain.

“Tri-level duplex,” she observed. “Johns on the first and second only, so I’d say: Keep first level clean—they’re going to get deliveries, don’t want weapons or plans in view—sleep second, use third for strategy sessions, storage. Fire escapes, rear, and potential roof access. Third bedroom on the second floor could be used for work, too. Subway’s an easy walk, or run if you need to run. Bus stop’s convenient. It’s a good location, a good HQ.”

“One that’s showing its age,” Roarke added, “and the effects of poor construction. Willowby rented with an option, and as the asking price is easily fifty thousand dollars over what it’s worth, I’d conclude he didn’t bother to negotiate.”

“He doesn’t plan to buy it.”

“I agree with that. The rent’s low in any case.”

Lowenbaum stepped in, looked at the screens. “You got him.”

“We will.”

“Then let’s get to work.”

Cops came in from the field minutes before pizza. Eve allowed the wolf attack—Roarke was right, cops had to eat—and brought them up to date while they ate.

“McNab, your level-three results.”

He swallowed a hefty bite of pizza, loaded. “The ID cruised through a standard level one, and would have passed a sloppy, even a down-and-dirty level two, but it cracked like an egg on three. Totally bogus ID, Dallas, but a decent one. Nobody but law enforcement runs a three—and then generally only when there’s a major crime involved.”

“Same on the second suspect,” Peabody put in. “Just like the one the suspect used for check-in at the hotel.”

“That keeps it clean, establishes pattern. Peabody, push the warrant through now. We go with the same op as before. Lowenbaum’s got his team in their ready room. EDD will roll out, using sensors to let us know if the suspects are inside. There’s an art studio on the west side of Third. McNab and Callendar will set up there.

“Lowenbaum.”

He rose, used a laser pointer to highlight the projected positions of his men. “Patroni will access the studio with McNab and Callendar. He requested the assignment,” Lowenbaum told Dallas. “He’s one of my best. He’ll stick.”

“All right then, saddle it up. Peabody, we roll with EDD.”

—

This time they rolled in the dark, after a long day of hunting. As they drove across town, Eve went over every step, tried to calculate every possibility.

“He’ll want to protect his daughter,” Roarke said, but she shook her head.

“He’s not running this show, he only thinks he is. She may play the student, the apprentice, but she’s driving the ball now. Maybe she’s been driving it for a while.”

“Do you see them as willing to die for this?”

“She doesn’t want to die, she wants to kill. He has a mission, fucked-up as it is, and would probably die for it. But she wouldn’t have stopped there. She wants to kill. We’ve taken all but one of the targets off the board. We take them down here, or she’ll find that last target. Then? She can wait. She’s young, she has resources, she has IDs, and likely she can get more. How long can we keep everyone she’s after protected? She’s got time on her side of this. We take them down here and now.”

When they reached the drop-off point, McNab gave Peabody a finger wiggle and slipped out with Callendar.

Didn’t look like cops, Eve thought, in the bright coats, patterned airboots. They walked briskly, as anyone would on a windy night in January.

Eve ran through check-ins from her men, from Lowenbaum and his as Roarke and Feeney got to work.

“He’s got it barricaded,” Feeney told her.

“What do you mean, barricaded?”

“Shields on the doors, on the windows. Stun deflectors. He’s put some work in here, and some serious moola.”

“Can you get through them?”

“Not with a stun or a laser on anything under five. He’s got some jammers set up, too, but give us a minute here.”

“Last stand,” she murmured. “He figured he had more time, time enough to finish the mission, hoped to get out with his daughter. But if and when it came down to it, he’d take his last stand here. Are they in there?”