J. Robb - Vengeance in Death

"I'm getting something," McNab whispered. "I'm getting it. Keep him talking."

"I wasn't offering you sex. I don't think you'd be very good at it."

"The harlot did. She offered her honor for her life. But God ordered her execution. His will be done."

He has another one was all Eve could think. She may already be too late. "You're boring me, pal. Your riddles are boring me. Why don't we just go to the main match, you and me, and see what shakes down?"

"There will be nine before it is accomplished." His voice grew stronger, like an evangelist's saving souls. "A novena of vengeance. It's not your time, but hers. Another riddle, Lieutenant, for your petty and secular mind: Pretty girls grow into pretty women, but once a whore, always a whore. They come running when the price is right. You'll find this one in the west, in the year of her crime. How long she breathes depends on her – and you, Lieutenant. But do you really want to save a whore who once spread her legs for the man you spread them for? Your move," he said and ended transmission.

"He's bouncing the transmission all over hell and back. Goddamn it." McNab shoved at his hair and flexed his fingers. "Got him on Orion, into Stockholm, up into Vegas Two, and through Sydney for Christ's sake. I can't pin him. He's got me out-equipped."

"He's in New York," Roarke said. "The rest is smoke."

"Yeah, well, it's damn good smoke."

Eve ignored McNab and concentrated on Roarke. His face was pale and set, his eyes icily blue. "You know who he has."

"Yes. Jennie. Jennie O'Leary. I just spoke with her two days ago. She was once a barmaid in Dublin and now runs a B and B in Wexford."

"Is that in the west of Ireland?" Even as Roarke shook his head, she was rising, skimming her fingers through her hair. "He can't want us to go to Ireland. That can't be right. He's got her here, he wants us here. I don't have any authority in Ireland, and he wants me in charge."

"The West Side," Peabody suggested.

"Yeah, that would fit. The West Side – in the year of her crime," she added, looking at Roarke.

"Forty-three. Twenty forty-three."

"West Forty-third then. That's where we start. Let's move, Peabody."

"I'm going with you." Roarke laid a hand on Eve's arm before she could protest. "I have to. McNab, call this number." He turned long enough to scrawl a 'link series onto a card. "Ask for Nibb. Tell him to have a 60K Track and Monitor unit and a 7500MTS sent over, along with his best tech to install it here in my wife's office."

"There's no 60K T and M," McNab objected.

"There will be in about six months. We have some test units."

"Holy shit, 60K." McNab nearly shuddered with delight. "I don't need a tech. I can handle it."

"Have him send one anyway. Tell him I want it up and running by noon."

When he was alone, McNab looked at the card and sighed. "Money doesn't just talk. It sings."

Eve got behind the wheel and took off down the drive the minute the doors were shut. "Peabody, run all the flops and LC nests on West Forty-third."

"Licensed companions? Oh, I get it." She pulled out her personal palm computer and got to work.

"He wants her to die in a whore's surroundings – my guess is the sleazier the better. Roarke, what do you own on West Forty-third that fits the bill?"

Another time he would have made a joke of that. He took out his own ppc and requested the data. "I own two buildings on West Forty-three. One is a restaurant with apartments above – single-family units, a hundred percent occupancy. The other is a small hotel with a public bar, projected to be refurbished."

"Name?"

"The West Side."

"Peabody?" Eve cut over to Seventh and headed downtown. She nipped through a red light and ignored the blast of horns and pedestrian curses. "Peabody?" she repeated.

"Working on it. Here. The West Side – that's 522 West Forty-third. Approved for on-site alcohol consumption, private smoking booths. Attached hotel licensed companion approved. Former owner, J. P. Felix, arrested January 2058. Violation of Codes 752, 821. Operating live sex acts without a license. Operating gambling establishment without a license. Property confiscated by City of New York and auctioned September 2058. Purchased by Roarke Industries, and currently up to code."

"Five twenty-two," Eve muttered as she winged onto Forty-third. "Do you know the setup here, Roarke?"

"No." In his mind he could see Jennie as he'd once known her. Pretty and bright and laughing. "One of my acquisitions staff viewed and bid on the property. I've only seen the paperwork."

He looked out the window as a young boy set up a three-card monte game while his adolescent partner scanned for cops and nuisance droids. He hoped they made a killing.

"I have one of my architects working up a plan for remodeling," he continued. "I haven't seen them either."

"Doesn't matter." Eve jerked the car to a stop, double parking in front of 522. She flipped on the NYPSD blinker, which helped her chances of finding her vehicle in one piece when she came back. "We'll check at the front desk, see what the clerk can tell us."

She bypassed the bar, noted grimly that the security plate on the hotel door was broken. The lobby was dim, with a single pathetic plant going from green to sickly yellow in the corner. The thick safety glass that caged in the desk was scratched and pitted. The access door was wide open. The droid on duty was out of operation.

It was easy to see why, as its body was slumped in a chair and its head sat on the counter.

"Goddamn it. He's been here. Maybe he's still here." She pulled out her weapon. "We take a floor at a time, knock on doors. Anybody doesn't answer, we go in."

Roarke opened a drawer under the droid's head. "Master code." He held up the thin card. "It'll make it easier."

"Good. Use the stairs."

Nearly every room on the first floor was empty. They found one groggy-eyed LC sleeping off a long night. She'd heard and seen nothing, and made her displeasure at being roused by cops obvious. On the second floor they found the remnants of a wild party, including a fistful of illegals scattered over the floor like abandoned toys.

On the graffiti-strewn stairway heading toward three, they found the child.

He was perhaps eight, thin and pale, with his toes poking out of his ragged sneakers. There was a fresh bruise under his right eye, and a scruffy gray kitten in his lap.

"Are you Dallas?" he wanted to know.

"Yeah. Why?"

"The man said I should wait for you. He gave me a two-dollar credit to wait."

Her heart picked up rhythm as she crouched down. The aroma there told her the kid hadn't seen bathwater in a number of days. "What man?"

"The guy who told me to wait. He said how you'd give me another two if I did, and I told you the thing."

"What thing?"

His eyes scanned her face slyly. "He said how you'd give me another two."

"Sure, okay." Eve dug in her pocket, made certain to keep her tone light, her smile easy. "So, what's the thing?" she asked as the boy took the credit and fisted it in his grubby hand.

"He said…" the boy closed his eyes and recited, " 'It's the third but not the last. You're quick but not too fast. No matter how much flash, no matter how much cash, no bastard son of Eire can ever escape his past. Amen.' " He opened his eyes and grinned. "I got it right, told him I would."

"Good for you. You stay right here and I'll give you another two. Peabody." She waited until they'd reached the landing. "Take care of the kid. Call Child Protection Services, then see if you can get any kind of description out of him. Roarke, you're with me. Third victim, third floor," she said to herself. "Third door."

She turned to the left, weapon raised, and knocked hard. "There's music." She cocked her head to try to catch the tune.