J. Robb - Portrait In Death

"I'd like to say something to you.Look at me, will you?" He waited until she'd turned. "I'm caught between pride and terror every time you put on that weapon and walk out the door. Every time. But I wouldn't have it any other way, Eve. Wouldn't have you any other way, as that's who you are and who we are together."

"It's not easy being married to a cop. You do a good job of it."

"Thanks for that." He smiled again. "You do a good one being married to a former criminal."

"Hooray for us."

"It's important to me to have a connection with what you do. Even if it's only to listen, though I enjoy doing more than that."

"Tell me."

"I'm annoyed with myself for scattering your focus on this case because I didn't do what I'd have demanded you do. I didn't dump on you. If I had, we'd have pulled this all together sooner. Next time I'm troubled like this, be sure I'll drag you into my worries straight off."

Her lips twitched. "Sounds good. And if you don't drag me quick enough, I'll just smack you around until you spill."

"Fair enough."

"Now, let's take a look at the names."

He put them on a wall screen. "There's nothing on any male in your age group. Not with a serious neurological problem."

"Maybe it's not the brain. Maybe it's some other part gone dinky."

"Well, I took that into consideration. There's still no patient out of that particular health center with a life-threatening condition in that profile. I can expand it, by spreading more grease as it were, or simply saving time and money by sliding into records in other facilities."

She considered it. It wouldn't be the first time she'd let him slither around the line. But even with his skills, it was bound to take hours, potentially days, to hack through the numerous medical facilities in the city.

And it was just a hunch. Just a gut thing.

"Let's play it by the book, more or less, for now."

She scanned the names. People were dying, she noted, but there was no killer to hunt and cage. The killer was their own body, or fate, or just bad luck. Tumors sprouting up in inconvenient places, spreading, propagating, brewing inside the brain.

Science could locate them, and if it was early enough, if the patient had the right insurance or bank account, treatment could and did eradicate. But it was often too late, she mused, reading the list of names. She'd had no idea death was so prevalent from inside the body.

Most were elderly, it was true. Most had already celebrated their centennial. But there was a scattering of younger victims.

Darryn Joy, age seventy-three. Marilynn Kobowski, age forty-one. Lawrence T. Kettering, age eighty-eight.

Already dead or dying, she noted.

Conine A. Stevenson, age fifty. Mitchell B.-

"Wait. Wait. Stevenson, Conine A., full data."

"Get a bump, did you?"

"Yeah, oh yeah." She yanked out her PPC, pulled up the resident information on one of the buildings she'd run, the one a block west of the parking port.

"Stevenson just happened to live within walking distance of the parking port. Twelfth floor-giving a nice view of the area, an excellent view if you happen to have long-range lenses."

"As a photographer would."

"Yeah." She looked back on-screen. "She died, despite what-two years of treatments-last September. No spouse on record. One child, surviving son, Gerald Stevenson. Born September 13, 2028. There's a goddamn bump. Run the son."

"Already on it," Roarke said from behind her as Peabody burst through the adjoining door.

"Dallas, I got something. Javert, Luis Javert." Her face was flushed with the discovery. "Ordered frames-the same style as Hastings's standing order, from the Helsinki outlet. One size-16 by 20. He's had 50 of them shipped to a mail drop in New York, West Broadway Shipping, in Tribeca."

"How'd he pay?"

"Direct transfer. I need authorization to request a warrant for the financials."

"You've got it. Use my badge number. Roarke."

"A bit of time here, Lieutenant. There's more than one Gerald Stevenson in the flaming city. But none with that DOB," he said after a moment. "None at that residence. He's not using that name. If he's changed it legally, I'll have to… dig around a bit."

"Then get a shovel. Her name's still listed as resident on the apartment. Somebody's living there and wouldn't it be Conine Stevenson's son Gerald? Peabody! With me."

"Yes, sir. One minute."

"Tag Feeney," she called to Roarke as she strode out. "Give him what you've got. The more e-drones on this, the better."

"E-men, Lieutenant," he corrected. "E-men." Then he wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to play a complex sonata.

It was good to be back.

She had to wait for Peabody to get back in uniform, so used the time to contact the commander and brief him.

"Do you want uniform backup?"

"No, sir. If he spots uniforms, it might spook him. I'd like Baxter and Trueheart, soft clothes, just to watch the egresses of the building. The suspect has not, to date, demonstrated any violent tendencies, but he may do if and when cornered. The apartment where I believe he resides is twelve floors up. Only way out is through the front door, or out the window and onto the emergency evac route. Peabody and I will have the door. Baxter and Trueheart can man the evac route."

"You've got a nice pile of circumstantial, Lieutenant, but having a mother die of brain cancer isn't going to be enough for a warrant."

"Then I'll have to be persuasive, sir, and convince him to let me inside." She looked over her shoulder as Peabody came down the steps, in her freshly laundered, meticulously pressed summer blues. "We're ready to go here, Commander."

"I'll have your backup in place within fifteen minutes. Move softly, Dallas."

"Yes, sir." She ended the communication.

"Nothing like a clean uniform." Peabody sniffed her own sleeve. "He uses something with just the faintest hint of lemon. Nice. I'll have to ask him what it is when he gets back from his vacation."

"I'm sure the two of you will have a fine time exchanging household hints, but maybe we could focus on our pesky little op for the moment."

Peabody shifted her expression to somber. "Yes, sir." But she admired the knife-edge crease of her uniform trousers as Eve filled her in.

The building had twelve floors, and she considered the advantage of placing one of her backup on the roof. Waste of manpower, she decided. If her target bolted out the window, she could bolt right after him, and head up if that was his tack. He was more likely to shoot for the street, if he bolted at all.

Would he have an escape route mapped out? He was a planner, so it was probable he'd considered the possibility of being cornered in his nest.

She called Roarke. "I need a blueprint display of the target building. I want to see the setup on the twelfth floor, the layout of the target apartment. How fast can you transmit-" She broke off when the diagram filled her screen. "Pretty damn fast," she replied.

"I'd decided to take a look at it myself. As you can see, it's a nice layout. Roomy living space, efficiently sized kitchen, two bedrooms."

"I got eyes. Later."

One bedroom for mom, one for son? She wondered. Did he work in the extra bedroom now? If he worked out of the apartment, why have the frames delivered so far downtown?

If he worked there, how the hell did he get four tranq'd people through building security and up to the twelfth floor?

She was hoping to be able to ask him directly, very soon.

She met up with Baxter and Trueheart in the lobby. It was a small space, very quiet, very clean. Security cams swept the entrance and the two silver-doored elevators. It didn't boast a doorman, live or droid, but it had required a scan of her badge to gain entrance.