Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

“Yes, sir.”

They hauled down Dupres’s tablets, ’links, desk comp.

“Roarke, narrow the search, crossing the names with psychic and/or medium work and licenses.”

“I didn’t just come down in the last shower of rain,” he replied, and slid into the passenger seat.

“What does that even mean?” She gauged the traffic, cursed it, then shot away from the curb. She felt the first real crack in the case, needed to widen it—and snarled at the fat, sticky knot of vehicles in her way.

“I’m going in hot,” she announced, hitting lights and sirens.

In the back, Peabody said, “Oh boy,” and clamped her hand on McNab’s. Focused on the work, Roarke simply tightened his seat belt without glancing up.

“I might have something on Zacari. One Anton Zacari, lived and worked as a spiritual consultant in Prague from 2049 to 2052. Closed up shop, relocated to Kashmir.”

“Where?”

“Himalayas, darling. And there he went missing on a mountain trek, and is presumed dead.”

“The dead don’t kill.” Judging an opening, she punched for more speed. “Got an image of him?”

“I do. Age forty-eight when he dropped off the grid. No marriage, no co-habs, no criminal. Hmmm.”

“Try an image match with the other names,” she began, then caught his quiet stare as she hit a fast vertical to circumvent vehicles that wouldn’t get the hell out of her way. “Fine. If you’re so damn smart, why aren’t you a cop?”

“You’ve just answered your own question. Image matches will go smoother and faster in the lab, but I’ve got something here on Roland. Angus Roland, spiritualist, Edinburgh, 2045 to 2048. Relocated to Istanbul, where he drowned in a boating incident in the Sea of Marmara. Body never recovered. Isn’t that interesting?”

“It’s bollocks, that’s what it is. Image?”

“At a glance, no match, but . . . with a bit of work. Ages are wrong by a few years, but only a few.”

“Changes appearance and ID, fakes death after a relocation. The world’s his sick playground.” Eve ignored the wide eyes of a pedestrian foolish enough to try to beat the sirens, swung hard to miss said idiot, then zipped back to avoid a collision with an oncoming Rapid Cab.

“Stop muttering, Peabody,” Eve ordered.

“She’s praying, Dallas.” She caught McNab’s grin in the rearview. “This is some wicked ride.”

She hit vertical again, did a kind of midair, two-wheeler turn to take the corner tight enough to have the glida-cart operator doing business on it scramble back.

“Wasn’t that close,” Eve said under her breath. “Glorified grifter, that’s what he is. If the other names don’t run the same, I’ll kiss McNab’s bony white ass.”

From the backseat, McNab snickered. “How can I lose?”

The comment pulled a reluctant laugh out of Eve as she arrowed toward Central’s garage. And with a scream of tires and a squeal of brakes, she shot into her slot.

“Thank you, Jesus, Buddha, and the goddess Morgana.” On shaky knees, Peabody climbed out. “I covered my bets.”

“Lab.” Eve doubled-timed it to the elevator. “Three or four years in one location. How long’s he been in New York? How long does he stay after he scores?”

She rode up to her level, cops and staff and civilians clambering on and off. “I need five in my office.” She bulled her way off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“She needs to put Dupres on her board,” Roarke commented. “Acknowledgment.”

“We’ll get him.” Since Eve wasn’t there, McNab wound his arm around Peabody’s shoulders, gave her a squeeze. “On the scent now.”

When they got off and turned toward the lab, e-geek Callendar crossed paths. She wore a hat with snowmen dancing around the brim and a scarf of purple, yellow, and green in lightning bolt stripes—both courtesy of Peabody’s talent with yarn.

“Yo. Heard you caught a hot one.”

“Scalding. You out?”

“Was. Scalding?”

“Total,” McNab confirmed. “Multi-search, single name cross, global, image matches with variance. Background, deep, on the bogus front—missing and presumed.”

“True? Psychic deal, yeah?”

“True. Fresh DB on the slab.”

“Want assist?”

“Won’t say no.”

“All in.” She pivoted, walked with them to the lab. She gave Roarke a sunny smile. “Dallas?”

“Had to make a stop. She’ll be along.”

“Chill.”

When they reached the lab, Callendar pulled off her green coat with its purple sleeves and unwound her scarf. Under it she sported a cap-sleeve sweater in puce over a long-sleeve turquoise tee, lime green baggies, and buttercup yellow knee boots.

Between her and McNab it looked as if neon had invaded the planet. Then Feeney stepped in wearing his habitual shit brown jacket and wrinkled beige shirt. The contrast only made the neon glow more fiercely.

He scratched his fingers through his wiry mop of silver-threaded ginger and studied the transported electronics with his baggy, basset hound eyes.

“Callendar, let’s you and me give these toys a what-for while the others get set up.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Roarke found it surprisingly easy to fall into work rhythm with a lab of cops. He shifted away from that work for a moment and ordered three large pizzas with a variety of toppings. His wife would mutter about it, but she’d eat.

In the shorthand geek-speak that made Eve’s eyes glass over, he and McNab worked out a plan of attack and, with Peabody on auxiliary, settled into it.

Through the glass walls of the lab, Eve noted the sharp and colorful Callendar chair dancing as she worked beside Feeney. Peabody huddled over a comp while McNab stood, that bony white ass tick-tocking, and Roarke—suit jacket shed, sleeves rolled up, hair back in a leather thong—sat on a stool dancing his fingers over a keyboard and a touch screen.

She stepped in and frowned at the chatter. Why couldn’t geeks just speak regular English?

“Status?”

“We’re running deep on your vic’s e’s,” Callendar told her. “In case something’s buried or pinched.”

“Doing background, underlayment,” Peabody said, “on the two Roarke pulled.”

“Image matches on auto.” Roarke continued to work. “Analysis of facial elements, probability run on possible reconstruction.”

“Got reports on the missings and presumed,” McNab added. “And jiving into search and cross on remaining names.”

“And there. See it?”Roarke asked.

McNab shifted toward Roarke. “And there’s the bingo. Collect the stuffed elephant.”

“Carroll, Niles George, licensed psychic and hypnotherapist, London, 2039 through 2044. You could toss this image in the mix, Ian.”

“All about it.”

“A bit of trouble here.”

“Yeah, I see that.” Eve stepped closer to read the data on the screen. “Had a client walk out of his place, go to her son’s place, and, Jesus, set fire to it. The son, his wife, and two children got out. The client didn’t.”

She felt the pieces fall into place as she read on. “Hallucinogens found in her system. By the time they traced her steps back to this Carroll—and you have to wonder about anybody with three first names—he was in the wind. He could blow pretty far with the three-quarters of a million he’d pulled from the dead client over six months. Some other clients dumped another five million and change on him during his London stint.”

“See here?” Roarke brought up another report. “The son was taking legal steps to take over his mother’s finances, citing mental and emotional instability.”

“Which gives Carroll—or whatever the hell name—motive to get rid of the son, and the client while he’s at it. Drain them, eliminate them, and blow. He doesn’t just blow, doesn’t just shift away from one client to an easier mark, because deluding the client into killing a loved one is part of the whole. Maybe his end game.”