The In Death Collection Books 16-20 - J. D. Robb [743]
“Don’t play with my controls. When we’re done with this, I need you to hook up with Peabody, keep pushing the property angle. We’re going to find them Upper West. Shit, they could be a fucking block away.”
“There goes the neighborhood. We scattering for the night because of the IAB hound?”
“Webster’s okay—but if I’ve got the team officially on the clock, and working out of my home, it’s a gray area. Politicians grumbling, and they don’t like gray unless they’re painting it. We got dead cops, we got injured cops, we’re poking into other cops’ cases—one of them closed with a guy doing cage time for it. And I’m not shutting it down fast enough to suit them. I’m not going to give them a reason to pull me off.”
“Taking the kid into your place opened you up to it.”
“I know it.”
“It was the right thing, Dallas. The right thing for her. Kid didn’t just need protection. She needed . . . comfort.”
“She needs me to close this thing, and I can’t if I get jammed up with bullshit. So we straddle the line, and Webster will keep the brass off our ass until we do. There’s the black-and-white. Let’s get this done.”
Eve strode to the two uniforms. “Either of you go inside?”
“No, sir. We were ordered to hold. Light was on up there, right front window, second floor.” One of them nodded toward the house. “Switched off when we pulled up. No one’s come out.”
“You check the back?”
“We were told to hold.”
“Jesus, don’t either of you have possession of a brain today? Kids’ve probably scrambled. Baxter, go around the back. I’ll take the front. The two of you stand here and give the appearance of being cops.”
She approached the front entrance, examined the seal and lock. Both had been hacked and mangled. It screamed kids, but she followed the suggestion of the tingle at the base of her spine and drew her weapon before she booted the door.
She swept, center, right, left, back to center. Called for lights and listened.
There was some debris scattered around. Home brew bottles, bags of soy chips. Snack food littered the floor, and had been crushed underfoot. It all said kids, disrespect, party.
When she heard a soft creak overhead, she crossed to the stairs.
Because she couldn’t hear anything, Nixie risked easing her head up, peeking out the window. She saw the two policemen and bit her lip when her eyes welled with tears. They wouldn’t let her go inside. If she tried to, they’d see her.
Even as she thought it, there were two bright flashes, and the policemen flew backwards and fell down the steps to her mother’s office. So quickly it seemed like pretend, two figures in black ran across the sidewalk and into her house.
The shadows.
She wanted to scream, to scream so loud, but nothing came out of her throat as she squeezed her body down onto the floor again. The shadows would kill Dallas and Baxter, just like they’d killed everybody. While she hid. They would cut them up while she hid.
Then she remembered what was in her pocket, and fumbled out the ’link Roarke had given her. She pushed the button, hard, and began to weep as she crawled out of the car. “You have to come, you have to help. They’re here! They’re going to kill Dallas. Hurry and come.”
Then she ran home.
At his desk Roarke felt the cool satisfaction of outwitting a foe. He was peeling away layers. He didn’t have the core yet, not yet, but it was only a matter of time. Dig deeply enough, and there were always footprints under the muck. He could follow them now. Triangle to Five-By, Five-By to Unified Action—another military term. And all the crisscrossing threads between. He came across the name Clarissa Branson, listed as president of Unified. Jolt from the past, he thought. One of Cassandra’s top-level operatives.
Eve had caught her, he remembered, before the crazy bitch could kill them both and blow up the Statue of Liberty for good measure. Clarissa and William Henson, the man who’d trained her. Both dead now. But . . .
He pulled up another program and ordered a search for New York properties under Clarissa Branson, William