J. Robb - Born In Death

“I somehow managed to fumble my way through such pesky chores before I met you.” She started the search, then stopped. Sat back. “You know what? I’ve got a better.” She got Feeney at home.

He was wearing a baggy and faded New York Liberties Arena Ball jersey with a ball cap pulled over his explosion of ginger hair. “There’s a costume party at your house and I didn’t get invited?”

“Game, two o’clock.”

“You look ridiculous.”

He pokered up. “My grandson gave me this jersey. You tag me on a Sunday to critique my wardrobe?”

“Need a quick one. I’m looking for a pocket ’link number, private, and its current location.”

“Game,” he repeated, “two o’clock.”

“Murder. Twenty-four/seven. It’ll be quick. I just need the number and the area. The fricking country. Madeline Bullock. It may be registered to her, or to the Bullock Foundation. Probably her as it’s a personal ’link. London home base.”

“Right, right, right,” he said. And hung up on her.

“I could have done that for you,” Roarke pointed out.

“You’re driving.” And she contacted Peabody. “Take another look at Randall Sloan. Finances, travel, property, real estate. He’s a gambler, so look at it with an eye to that.”

“You got a scent?”

“Yeah, I’m following it now. Mavis?”

“She conked. Been out about a half-hour.”

“Good. If I can track down Randall Sloan, I’m bringing him in for questioning. I’ll let you know.”

“Dallas, I’ve got that list of agencies and counselors from England. All European-based.”

She shifted gears, focused on Tandy. “Give them to the investigating officers, Rome and Middlesex. Meanwhile, run them yourself, zero in on any that have offices in both countries. Especially those that have multiple locations in Europe. And shoot them to my PPC while you’re at it.”

“Got that. Good luck.”

Eve rubbed her eyes, blinked them open.

“Why don’t you get a little sleep before we get to Sloan’s?”

She shook her head, wished she’d thought to bring a vat of coffee with her. “No way of knowing if she’s still alive. If it’s the baby they want, if they just went in there and took it out. She’d be, what, like a vessel.” Eve turned to Roarke. “When she gives up what she’s holding, she’s expendable.”

“You can’t do any more than you’re doing, Eve.”

“Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean it’s going to be enough. If she’s alive, she has to be out of her mind with fear. Not just for herself, but the baby. You’re carrying that… potential inside you, it’s the whole focus of your world, I guess. You’re creating it, protecting it, bringing it – you know – forth. Through all the discomfort, inconvenience, pain, and blood and fear, it’s vital. Its health, its safety, that’s paramount. I see that in Mavis, the way she looks, holds herself, holds it.

“I don’t know if I’ve got that in me to give.”

“You have to be joking. Darling Eve, you give all that, and more, to complete strangers.”

“It’s the job.”

“It’s you.”

“You know how fucked up I am about kids, parents, the whole ball of it.”

He took her hand as he drove, brought it to his lips. “I know the two of us have strange, dark places inside us, and we might need some time for a little more light to seep in before we’re ready to add to the family we’ve already made.”

“Okay, good. More light. I’m for it.”

“Then I think we should have five or six.”

“Five or six what? What?” She thought… for a moment she thought her heart actually stopped. The buzz in her ears was so thick she barely heard his laugh. “That’s not funny.”

“It certainly was, especially from my point of view. You couldn’t see your face.”

“You know, one day, perhaps in our lifetime, medical science will find a way to implant an embryo into a man, incubating it there while said man waddles around looking like he swallowed and is unable to digest a pot-bellied pig. Then we’ll see what’s funny.”

“One of the many things I love you for is your delightful imagination.”

“Remember that when I put your name on the implant list. Why don’t people stay home on Sunday?” she wondered, bitterly, as she cued into the traffic. “What’s wrong with home? What kind of transpo did Bullock and her son take out of New York?”

“Another thing I love you for is the many and varied channels of your mind. No doubt private, given the depth of the Bullock wells.”

“Foundation shuttle. They came, ostensibly anyway, on foundation business. If they’re still traveling, they’ve probably made use of the same shuttle.”

“Where were they when you originally verified Kraus’s alibi?”

“I don’t know. Peabody did the verify, and she had to contact a foundation number and get a callback. It wasn’t pertinent at the time. But I can track that shuttle if I have to. Have to hack my way through international law and relations, and I hate that, but I’ve got enough to hold them for questioning. And I think the British government’s going to be very interested in their accounts.”

“They may take a hit there,” Roarke agreed. “But if they’re smart, and their legal representatives will be, they can dump that on Randall Sloan personally, and the firm.”

“I can tangle that, seeing as their legal reps fall under the same shadow. I’m going to have to turn this over to Global. After I talk to Randall Sloan.”

Randall Sloan lived in a trim and elegant old brownstone on the edge of Tribeca. From the sidewalk, Eve could see that the third floor had been converted into a solarium so that it was topped with curved, pale blue glass.

“He has a current driver’s license,” Eve said. “And keeps a vehicle four blocks from here in a private garage. Means, motive.”

“Opportunity is dicier, isn’t it, given that he has an alibi. Or do you think his dinner companions for that evening are covering for him?”

“Didn’t feel like it, but we’ll go back over that. He may have been a tool. Tools don’t always get dirty. If he didn’t do the murders himself, he knew about them.” She started up the three steps that led to the main entrance. “Alarm’s on green,” she pointed out.

As she lifted her hand to press the buzzer, she noticed there was more, and engaged her recorder.

“Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke, Expert Civilian Consultant, at the residence of Sloan, Randall. Upon arrival I’ve found the security system disengaged and the front door unlatched.”

Automatically, she drew her weapon. She buzzed, and called out, “Randall Sloan, this is Lieutenant Dallas with the police. I have a civilian consultant with me. Please acknowledge.”

She waited, ears cocked for any sound. “Mr. Sloan, I repeat, this is the police. Your residence is unsecured.” When there was no response, she circled around the line she had to walk, and eased the door open.

“Nothing in plain sight,” she stated. “He could have gone rabbit. I need a warrant.”

“Door’s open.”

“Yeah, and I could go in, check it out. I can argue probable cause, but without authorization I risk giving his lawyers something to whine about. I can get a warrant quick enough.”

She started to call in when someone hailed her from behind.

Turning, she saw Jake Sloan and Rochelle DeLay walking toward the house, hand-in-hand, faces rosy from the cold.

“Lieutenant, Jake and Rochelle, remember?”

“Yes. This is Roarke.”

“I recognize you.” As he came up the first step, Jake shot out a hand. “Good to meet you, and so you know, any time you’re looking for a young, hard-working accountant, I’m available.”