“It was too late,” Kotler whispered. “Too late. I didn’t know Wayne was . . . I didn’t know until Ilene told me. Dustin. I knew Dustin was . . . My nephew. He’s only nineteen. Gap year. He just wanted to work here before he started college. My nephew Dustin.”
He began to weep, harsh, gulping sobs. Aceti put her good arm around him, drew him against her. Then she, too, began to weep.
Eve gestured to Peabody, moved with her to the door.
“See if you can get any more out of them. About the artist. If they sold any of his earlier work, who bought it. You know what to ask.”
She stepped out, took a breath of air that wasn’t thick with grief. Roarke tucked away his PPC, moved to her.
“Remotely compromised, the fire suppression system and its alarm. Nothing else. They never tried for the locks, or the cameras. The suppression system’s been off since early this morning. About five A.M.”
He glanced toward the door, and the sound of weeping. “Nothing shatters lives like violent death.”
“No. I need to talk to Salazar.”
She walked to the archway, and with a word to one of her people, Salazar came out. “The morgue’s picking up their pieces. We’re picking up ours. And I can tell you, just by the eyeball, it’s going to be the same bomb maker. Military grade. We’ve got his signature now.”
“Can you trace the components?”
“We can try. The fricking black market on this is a maze. And if he’s got any brains, he’s not getting everything from one source. I think he’s got brains. I’ll push on my end the same as you’ll push on yours. You know the thing about making bombs, Dallas?”
“They go boom.”
“Yeah, and the juice of making the go-boom, the intricacy, even the risk it goes boom on you? It’s addicting. He’s got two under his belt—at least. He’s going to build more.”
“I know it. He’s having a hell of a good time, and making a steady profit.” She took a last hard look as the morgue team bagged parts of human beings. “He’s going to have a fucking downturn. I swear to God.”
15
Eve went by the Denby residence, the expected single-family home in the West Village. All three floors already swarmed with sweepers.
No basement, she noted, but a large utility area. And there they’d bound the battered, terrified pregnant woman, tied her to the exposed pipes under a work sink.
Eve crouched down, examine
d the blood smears on the pipes. And the scratches—fresh—along the thick joint. She found a screwdriver, also blood-smeared, on the floor.
“Got her hands on this somehow.” Curious, Eve opened a drawer on an old cabinet beside the sink. “Out of here. A few household tools in here. She must’ve gotten it out, tried to use it to hack through the pipe.”
“If her hands were bound to that pipe, she must’ve used her foot. Her feet.”
Eve nodded as she straightened. “Yeah, managed to get the screwdriver out of the drawer, nudge it over, over until she could reach it with her hands. Had to take time and a lot of sweaty, uncomfortable effort.”
She stepped out, into the kitchen, and found Feeney walking in.
“They said you were down here.”
“And they said EDD was here. They didn’t say the captain.”
His droopy eyes hardened. “I wanted to handle this one myself. It’s pissing me off.”
“Get in line.”
“Remoted it,” he told her. “In layers, just like before. System wasn’t as high-end as the last one, but it’s damn good. Good toys is what they’ve got, Dallas. They paid for good toys and somebody who knows how to modify and enhance them. Or they’ve got the skills to build the toys.”
“Maybe, maybe they’ve got the skills, but they’re not B and E pros. Not thieves, professionally.” She moved with him and Peabody through the house. “Easy valuables, including jewelry. Upstairs you’ve got suitcases already packed, and some things left out probably going in last minute. Safe upstairs in the master? Better jewelry and cash inside.”
“Was it open?” he asked her.