J. Robb - Vengeance in Death

"McNab." Feeney danced after her, ditching his straw hat and his vacation mood as he went. "EDD's working with you on this?"

"Our guy's an electronics and communications whiz. He's got a high-end jammer among his toys. McNab's been cutting through the layers, and he managed to nail the source. But we haven't found his hole."

"McNab. The boy's good. I've been bringing him along."

"You can talk techno-jazz when he gets here. Right now I've got a straight search – and a 'link log to verify." She paused at the entrance to Summerset's quarters. "You want in, or do you want to go back and find your party hat?"

"I'll just call the wife and tell her I won't be home for supper."

Eve grinned. "I missed you, Feeney. Damned if I didn't."

He grinned wickedly. "The wife took six hours of video. She wants you and Roarke to come over for dinner next week, and the show." Wiggling his brows, he turned to Peabody. "You come too."

"Oh, well, Captain, I wouldn't want to horn in on – "

"Stow it, Peabody. If I have to suffer, you have to suffer too. That's chain of command."

"Another incentive," Peabody decided, "for increasing my rank. Thank you, Lieutenant."

"No problem. Recorder on. Dallas, Lieutenant Eve; Feeney, Captain Ryan; Peabody, Officer Delia entering quarters of Summerset, Lawrence Charles, standard search for evidence."

She'd never been inside Summerset's private domain. It was just one more surprise. Where she'd expected the stark and utilitarian, straight edges and minimal style, was a lovely living area with soft, blending tones of blue and green, pretty trinkets on tables of honey-hued wood, generous, giving cushions, and an air of welcome.

"Who'd have figured it?" Eve shook her head. "You look at this and picture a guy who enjoys life, even has friends. Feeney, take the communications center, will you. Peabody – That'll be McNab," she said when the buzz sounded from the recessed house monitor on the south wall. "Clear him through, Peabody, then I want you to start in here. I'll take the bedroom."

Four rooms spread out from the living area like ribs of a fan. The first was an efficient office and control center where Feeney rubbed his hands together and dived into the equipment. Opposite that was an equally efficient kitchen that Eve ignored for now.

Two bedrooms faced each other, but one was doubling now as an artist's studio. Eve pursed her lips, studied the watercolor still life in progress on the easel. She knew it was fruit because she saw the huge bowl with overflowing grapes and glossy apples on the table under the window. On the canvas, however, the fruit was having a very bad season.

"Don't quit your day job," she murmured and turned in to his bedroom.

The bed was big, with an elaborate pewter headboard that twisted into vines and silvery leaves. The duvet was thick and spread neatly over the mattress without a wrinkle. The closet held two dozen suits, all black, all so similar in style they might have been cloned. Shoes, again black, were housed in clear protective boxes and ruthlessly polished.

That's where she started, checking pockets, searching for anything that would signal a false wall.

When she came out fifteen minutes later, she could hear Feeney and McNab happily chirping about mainframes and signal capacitors. She went through the bureau drawer by drawer and shut down any threatening shudder that she was pawing through Summerset's underwear.

She'd been at it an hour, and was just about to call Peabody in to help her flip the mattress when she looked at the single watercolor over a table decked with hothouse roses.

Odd, she thought, all the other paintings – and the man had an art house supply of them – were in groupings on the walls. This one stood alone. It was a good piece of work, she supposed, moving closer to study the soft strokes, the dreamy colors. A young boy was the centerpiece, his face angelic and wreathed with smiles, his arms loaded with flowers. Wild flowers that spilled over and onto the ground.

Why should the kid in the painting look familiar? she wondered. Something about the eyes. She moved closer yet, peering into that softly painted face. Who the hell are you? she asked silently. And what are you doing on Summerset's wall?

It couldn't be Summerset's work, not after the canvas she'd seen in his studio. This artist had talent and style. And knew the child. Eve was almost certain of that.

For a better look, she lifted it from the wall and carried it to the window. Down in the corner she could see a sweep of writing. Audrey.

The girlfriend, she mused. She supposed that's why he'd hung it separately, underplanting it with fresh roses. Christ, the man was actually love struck.

She nearly re-hung the painting, then laid it on the bed instead. Something about the boy, she thought again, and her heart picked up in pace. Where have I seen him? Why would I have seen him? The eyes. Damn it.

Frustrated, she turned the painting over and began to pry it from its gilded frame.

"Find something, Dallas?" Peabody asked from the doorway.

"No – I don't know. Something about this painting. This kid. Audrey. I want to see if there's a title – a name on the back of the canvas. Hell with it." Annoyed, she reached up to tear off the backing.

"Wait. I've got a penknife." Peabody hurried over. "If you just slit the backing up here, you can re-seal it. This is a nice, professional job." She slipped the tip of her knife under the thin white paper, lifted it gently. "I used to do the backings for my cousin. She could paint, but she couldn't turn a screw with a laser drill. I can fix this when – ''

"Stop." Eve clamped a hand on Peabody 's wrist when she spotted the tiny silver disc under the backing. "Get Feeney and McNab. The fucking painting's bugged."

Alone, Eve lifted the painting out of its frame and, turning it, looked down in the signature corner. Below Audrey's name, deep in the corner that had been covered by the frame, was a green shamrock.

"They could keep an eye on him during his personal time," Eve said as she drove hard to the Luxury Towers. "Odds are Feeney and McNab will find another couple paintings of hers through his quarters, wired."

"Shouldn't Roarke's bug eaters have tapped them?"

"Feeney'll find out why they went undetected. You got anything on her yet?"

"No, sir. All I get from the run is that she's forty-seven, born in Connecticut. She studied at Julliard, did three years at the Sorbonne in Paris, another two at the art colony on Rembrandt Station. She teaches privately and donates instruction time at Culture Exchange. She's lived in New York for four years."

"She's connected. He's diddled with her records. I'll eat Feeney's ugly new hat if she's from Connecticut. Run the females on the Irish link. All female relatives on the six men who did Marlena. Put it on the monitor so I can see."

"Take a minute." Peabody opened Eve's file, found the labeled disc, and inserted it. "Display females only, with full data."

Eve pulled over a block from the Luxury Towers as the faces began to run. "No." She shook her head, signaling Peabody to go on to the next, and the next. She cursed under her breath, snarled at a glide-cart operator who slid up to try to hawk his wares. "No, damn it. She's in here, I know it. Wait, hold on, go back one."

"Mary Patricia Calhoun," Peabody read off. "Nee McNally, widow of Liam Calhoun. Resides Doolin, Ireland. Artist. Her tax-exempt number's up to date. Age forty-six, one son, also Liam, student."

"It's the eyes, just like the kid in the painting. She's changed her hair, brown from blond, had some face work done. Longer, thinner nose now, more cheekbone, less chin, but that's her. Split screen, display image of Liam Calhoun, son."