J.D. Robb - Visions In Death

"What the hell." Deciding they were marginally better than going around with red, swollen eyes, Eve put them on.

"Uptown!" "No, I'm thinking down." Eve got up, helped Mavis to her feet. "Thanks for the loan. I've gotta go bust this bastard."

Roarke said nothing until they were back in the car, Eve behind the wheel.

"Not your usual fashion accessory." "Huh?" He tapped a finger on the frames.

"Oh. Mavis. I, ah, borrowed them because…" She blew out a breath.

"You don't need to hide them from me." He slipped the glasses off, leaning over to lay light kisses on her eyelids.

"Aw," she said with a half smile. "What're ya gonna do?" She threw her arms around him, burrowing in. "I didn't want to break down and start blubbering all over McNab. I got most of it out, so you don't have to worry about me blubbering all over you." "I never worry. You were due for a breakdown, and you timed it until you were sure our girl was going to be all right." "Yeah, I guess." It was so good to hold, to be held. "Now we're going to take care of business." She eased back. "Eyes bad?" "They're beautiful." She rolled them. This is not Peabody on drugs." "By the time you get to Central, good as new." "Okay." But she stuck the sunshades back on. "Just in case."

They weren't even out of the parking garage when her communicator beeped. "Dallas." "Got him." "Oh Jesus, Feeney. Send it through to my vehicle's unit. I want to see him. We're on our way to Central now. Can you meet me in my office?" "I'll be there. Take a look." Quickly, she programmed the vehicle for Central's garage and shifted to auto so she could give the image her full attention.

"There you are, you son of a bitch. Blue, John Joseph. Age thirty-one. Damn it." Since auto didn't allow her to exceed speed limits or outrun reds, she switched back, hit the sirens. "I don't want audio," she said to Roarke. "I don't need to hear it all. Just give me the salient." "Single, mixed-race male. No spouse, no legal cohabitation partner. No offspring on record. No criminal on record." "He's got something. Juvenile, I'll bet your ass. And sealed.

We'll worry about that later." "Residence listed as Classon Avenue, Brooklyn." "Brooklyn?" She shook her head as she screamed through traffic. "No, that's not right. Can't be." "That's what's here. Resided that address eight years.

Owner, operator Comptrain, Inc. same address. Want the details on that?" "Yeah." But he didn't live in Brooklyn. Not now.

"Ah, small data analysis company. There's your hacking skills, Lieutenant. He'd do most of the work right out of his home for this. Tech support and the like." "Cross with the customer and member lists." "Moment. You've got him as a member, ten years standing, at Jim's Gym downtown." "And he didn't pop because of the Brooklyn addy. We'd've gotten to him, but he wasn't in the first layer. He's not coming to the city from Brooklyn to stalk and kill. I don't buy it.

And they've got gyms in Brooklyn, for Christ's sake." She flew into the garage, cut speed seconds before she arrowed into her slot. Roarke, made of sterner stuff than Peabody, never flinched. He was out of the car with her, moving double-time to the elevator.

"A second residence in the city then. One he hasn't listed, or rents, has bought under another name." She jumped off the elevator on the first floor and dashed to a glide, hot-footing it up, elbowing passengers aside on the way.

Ignoring protests, she hopped off, jumped on another. "I'm going to put this op together, fast. Two tactical teams. One to Brooklyn." "And the other?" "I've got an idea on that." She streamed up the glide at a run, pivoted, and rushed through her bull pen without acknowledging any of the calls or questions.

"Full data up," she snapped at Feeney.

"Up. What's with the shades." "Hell." She yanked them off, tossed them on the desk.

"Mother. Ineza Blue, age fifty-three. Address listed on Fulton.

Bingo, you rat bastard." "Ineza Blue," Roarke said, working rapidly on his PPC.

"Retired licensed companion. One child, son." "You get me the mother's image from, say twenty years ago, I bet you get me a white woman with long, light brown hair." She slapped Feeney on the back.

"Lieutenant?" Roarke held out his palm unit. "She's a hit on your customer list for Total Crafts." "Get me details on her purchases, last six months. Look for the cord."

She snapped back to Feeney. "Let's get started," she said and turned to her "link to contact the commander.

Fifteen minutes later, she was in a conference room briefing her tactical teams. "Team One takes the target in Brooklyn.

Briscoll goes in as delivery to ascertain if the subject is on the premises. Target is to be surrounded at all points. We're also looking for a black van, now identified as registered to subject's mother. Last year's model, Sidewinder. If said van is spotted, lock it down. Baxter, you're heading this team.

"Team Two will deploy to the Fulton Street residence. The same procedure applies, with Ute taking the delivery position.

I head this team. In both locations, we go in fast and we go in hard. Warrants are coming through. If the subject isn't located, we wait for him. I don't want this asshole making a cop. He makes any of you, I fry you. We take him down, and we take him today. If there are any screwups on this one, any screwups in procedure, in chain of evidence, if somebody fucking sneezes at the wrong time, I will personally put their neck in a wringer and hit go. Questions?" "Just one." This from Baxter. The subject is a large individual with considerable muscle. It may take some extreme measures to restrain him. Just want to make sure everyone on my team is prepared to take these measures, whatever they may entail." Eve angled her head. "I want him conscious for Interview.

Other than that…" She let it hang. "Don't let those measures get out of hand. Move out. Feeney, round up Team Two."

She ordered her team to strap on protective gear. Though she didn't see it as an issue, she wasn't taking chances. She didn't want to visit another cop in the hospital.

"You don't figure the mother's in on this," Feeney said as they waited inside the surveillance van.

"No. We got the cord, twenty-yard length of it, delivered to the Fulton Street address five months ago. I'm saying she had some in stock previous to that, and the new supply was ordered by the son. She didn't have any deliveries listed before that, or after. She always picked up her supplies. I figure she's dead or incapacitated." She shifted to the balls of her feet, back again. Squatted and straightened to be sure the gear didn't hamper movement.

"If he offed her, maybe that's what set him off on the rest. Maybe she just kicked, and that set him off, but I'm betting he helped her out." She looked over at Roarke. "You and I are going in the front, once we've determined he's inside. Feeney and his man in the back. Communications remain open, at all times. I want everyone with a badge, and the civilian consultant, to know where everyone is. Good-sized house," she commented, studying it through the screened window of the van. "One floor down below street level, two above. Two men take the below, and we go in on my signal. I want every door, every window covered. He moves fast, and he's not going to fall down and surrender. He'll run." "Team's in position," Feeney told her. "Go to Ute?" "Go." She watched Ute zip down from the east corner on a compact jet-bike. He secured it at the curb, bounced off, and up to the door with his misdirected package. He rang the bell, bounced his head around as if bopping to the beat of music through headsets.

And she heard, clear as a bell, the answer from the security-corn.

"What?" "Delivery, man. You wanna sign. Shit. Starting to rain." The first thin drops splat the streets and sidewalks when the door opened.