The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [131]
“As a photographer would.”
“Yeah.” She looked back on-screen. “She died, despite what—two years of treatments—last September. No spouse on record. One child, surviving son, Gerald Stevenson. Born September 13, 2028. There’s a goddamn bump. Run the son.”
“Already on it,” Roarke said from behind her as Peabody burst through the adjoining door.
“Dallas, I got something. Javert, Luis Javert.” Her face was flushed with the discovery. “Ordered frames—the same style as Hastings’s standing order, from the Helsinki outlet. One size—16 by 20. He’s had 50 of them shipped to a mail drop in New York, West Broadway Shipping, in Tribeca.”
“How’d he pay?”
“Direct transfer. I need authorization to request a warrant for the financials.”
“You’ve got it. Use my badge number. Roarke.”
“A bit of time here, Lieutenant. There’s more than one Gerald Stevenson in the flaming city. But none with that DOB,” he said after a moment. “None at that residence. He’s not using that name. If he’s changed it legally, I’ll have to . . . dig around a bit.”
“Then get a shovel. Her name’s still listed as resident on the apartment. Somebody’s living there and wouldn’t it be Corrine Stevenson’s son Gerald? Peabody! With me.”
“Yes, sir. One minute.”
“Tag Feeney,” she called to Roarke as she strode out. “Give him what you’ve got. The more e-drones on this, the better.”
“E-men, Lieutenant,” he corrected. “E-men.” Then he wiggled his fingers like a pianist about to play a complex sonata.
It was good to be back.
She had to wait for Peabody to get back in uniform, so used the time to contact the commander and brief him.
“Do you want uniform backup?”
“No, sir. If he spots uniforms, it might spook him. I’d like Baxter and Trueheart, soft clothes, just to watch the egresses of the building. The suspect has not, to date, demonstrated any violent tendencies, but he may do if and when cornered. The apartment where I believe he resides is twelve floors up. Only way out is through the front door, or out the window and onto the emergency evac route. Peabody and I will have the door. Baxter and Trueheart can man the evac route.”
“You’ve got a nice pile of circumstantial, Lieutenant, but having a mother die of brain cancer isn’t going to be enough for a warrant.”
“Then I’ll have to be persuasive, sir, and convince him to let me inside.” She looked over her shoulder as Peabody came down the steps, in her freshly laundered, meticulously pressed summer blues. “We’re ready to go here, Commander.”
“I’ll have your backup in place within fifteen minutes. Move softly, Dallas.”
“Yes, sir.” She ended the communication.
“Nothing like a clean uniform.” Peabody sniffed her own sleeve. “He uses something with just the faintest hint of lemon. Nice. I’ll have to ask him what it is when he gets back from his vacation.”
“I’m sure the two of you will have a fine time exchanging household hints, but maybe we could focus on our pesky little op for the moment.”
Peabody shifted her expression to somber. “Yes, sir.” But she admired the knife-edge crease of her uniform trousers as Eve filled her in.
The building had twelve floors, and she considered the advantage of placing one of her backup on the roof. Waste of manpower, she decided. If her target bolted out the window, she could bolt right after him, and head up if that was his tact. He was more likely to shoot for the street, if he bolted at all.
Would he have an escape route mapped out? He was a planner, so it was probable he’d considered the possibility of being cornered in his nest.
She called Roarke. “I need a blueprint display of the target building. I want to see the setup on the twelfth floor, the layout of the target apartment. How fast can you transmit—” She broke off when the diagram filled her screen. “Pretty damn fast,” she replied.
“I’d decided to take a look at it myself. As you can see, it’s a nice layout. Roomy living space, efficiently sized kitchen, two bedrooms.”
“I got eyes. Later.”
One bedroom