Betrayal in Death

  “If I can’t delay for fourteen hours, give or take, I shouldn’t be working for the government. He won’t tip anybody about your op. Whenever you want to interview him about your two homicides, I’ll clear it. He give you that?” she asked, jerking her chin toward Eve’s face.

  “I got it on the tackle, bringing him down.”

  “You ought to put some ice on it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s been a pleasure.” Stowe held out her hand. “Lieutenant.”

  “Likewise. Agent.”

  She ordered Peabody to find the closest 24/7 and buy some ice. In direct violation of orders, Peabody hit the closest pharmacy and brought back a cold patch with anti-inflammatories and a bottle of pain blockers.

  “Where’s my ice?”

  “This is better than ice.”

  “Officer—”

  “Lieutenant, if you use this patch correctly, your face will not be swollen up like a beat-up ad blimp when you check in at the hotel to recon with security. Which means, Roarke won’t haul you off to the MTs or administer first aid himself. Since you particularly dislike both of these eventualities, I suggest you take what I got you and avoid this future annoyance.”

  “That was good, Peabody. Really good. I hate you, but it was good.” Eve snatched the box, scowled at the instructions for the patch. “How the hell does this thing work?”

  “I’ll do it. Just hold still.”

  So Peabody opened the box, activated the anti-inflammatory, and affixed the patch over Eve’s aching nose. The relief was considerable, and it was quick, but one look in the mirror had Eve swearing.

  “I look like an idiot.”

  “Yes, you do,” Peabody agreed, studying the result of the white strip over Eve’s face. “But you looked like an idiot without it, too. Sir. Got your sun shades?”

  “No, I can never keep track of them.”

  “Take mine.” Generously, Peabody pulled hers out of her pocket, handed them over. “Better,” she said when Eve slipped the dark glasses on. “A little better. Want some water to down the blocker?”

  “I don’t want a blocker.”

  “It’ll give the patch a boost. Make it work faster.”

  Though she suspected that was a lie, Eve took the tiny blue pill, swallowed, snarled. “There. Do you think I could get back to work now, Nurse Peabody?”

  “Yes, sir, I think that’s the best we can do for you right now.”

  She stopped by the hospital first to check on Lane. He was in a gentle twilight sleep, with his condition listed as satisfactory. The cover of allergic reaction was holding. Kept quarantined, he was allowed no visitors.

  Eve was informed his mother had been to the hospital twice, and had watched him through the view glass. Liza Trent had signed in once, and had stayed for under five minutes.

  If any other friends or associates had come by, they’d evaded the log. Eve had come armed with a warrant and was able to access copies of the security discs for Lane’s floor with only half the usual hassle.

  “Michel Gerade,” she said when she played the disc back in her office. He stood, frowning at Lane through the viewing glass. “Nice of him to visit his sick pal.”

  “He doesn’t look concerned so much as pissed.”

  “Yeah, and he didn’t bring a get-well present, did he? This confirms Gerade’s presence in New York. If he participates in this attempted heist, we may link him solid to Yost. Diplomatic immunity won’t cover his sorry ass on conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “Neither one of the Naples men showed up on disc?”

  “No. I’m betting Gerade there drew the straw for errand boy. Make sure Lane is hospitalized as advertised. See here, he goes to the nurse’s station, tries to pump for information. Concerned friend. Charm, charm. She bends enough to look up the chart and give him exactly what we want him to have. Severe allergic reaction resulting in seizure. Complete bed rest and mild sedation in quarantine for forty-eight hours while tested.”

  Eve watched Gerade walk toward the elevator. “They won’t like it, but they’re not going to abort a plan this long-term and complex because one of their group’s in la-la land. As far as they’re concerned, he’d already done his job.”

  She ejected the disc, filed it. “Now let’s go do ours.”

  chapter twenty-two

  It was seventeen hundred hours when Eve walked into The Palace Hotel. She used the main lobby entrance. She wanted to do a walk-through, using her own eyes and ears and instincts to map out the hotel and gauge its rhythm before she went up to base control.

  The two-tier lobby was a sea of marble and mosaic, the kind of rich and regal colors and designs she’d seen on one of her trips with Roarke to Italy.

  Exotic arrangements of flowers speared and spilled out of urns taller than a man. The staff was dressed in royal red or blue, depending on their function.

  The guests dressed rich.

  She watched a six-foot woman, wrapped in what looked like filmy scarves from neck to knee, lead a trio of tiny white dogs on a triple leash.

  “Augusta.”

  “What?”

  “Augusta,” Peabody repeated in Eve’s ear, nodding toward the whip-thin woman and her furballs. “This year’s primo model. God, I’d kill to have legs like that. And that’s Bee-Sting over there. Lead singer for Crash and Burn. And, oh jeez, just coming off the elevator, left bank, is Mont Tyler. Screen Queen Magazine voted him sexiest man of the decade. It sure is fun working with you, Dallas.”

  “If you’ve finished gawking, Peabody.”

  “If we have time, I could gawk a little longer.” And her head did swivel, seesawing back and forth, up and down as she followed Eve across the lobby.

  Eve was doing some scanning herself. She measured distances to exits, to elevator banks. She spotted two of the undercovers pulling bell staff duty. She rechecked security cam positions. She looked for holes.

  And as she climbed the three flights to the ballroom level, she checked out every floor between.

  Security, human and droid, were on duty, flanking the entrances to the Magda Lane Display, discreetly rounding the perimeter. People queued up, wandered through to sigh and gasp over sparkling gowns, glittering jewels, the photographs, the holo-prints, the small mementos, and grand costumes.

  Each display or bank of displays was ringed inside red velvet rope. That was for show. The sensor shields ringing those same displays were invisible.

  Those were for security.

  Auction catalogues, disc or commemorative hard copy, were on sale to those who wanted to shell out over twelve hundred dollars.

  A sampling of the catalogue could be accessed on-screen in hotel guest rooms at no charge.

  “They’re shoes,” Eve finally said, pausing by a pair of silver pumps. “Somebody else’s shoes. You want to wear somebody else’s shoes, you go to a recycle mart.”

  “But, sir, it’s like buying magic.”

  “It’s like buying somebody else’s shoes,” Eve corrected, and satisfied for the moment, started out.

  Magda, and her entourage, stepped off the elevator.

  “Eve. I’m so glad I’ve run into you.” Magda hurried forward, both hands outstretched. Her waterfall of hair was scooped up at the neck. And her eyes were tired. “My son.”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry he’s ill. How’s he doing?”

  “They tell me he’ll be fine. Some silly reaction. But they’re keeping him sedated and quarantined. I can’t even let him know I’m there.”

  “Now, Magda, of course he knows.” Mince patted her arm, but his gaze skipped uneasily to Eve’s. “Magda’s worrying herself sick over that boy,” he said. And his eyes said clearly: Make it stop.

  “He’s being well taken care of.” Eve gave Magda’s hands a reassuring squeeze.

  “Well, I hope . . . In any case, I’m told you were there with him when he became ill.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’d dropped by to see him to go over some of the security
details.”

  “He was fine when I left.” Liza gave Eve a piercing look. “Just fine.”

  “He certainly seemed to be. So, he didn’t complain earlier about being a little queasy, dizzy?”

  Back to you, sweetheart, Eve thought.

  “No, he was fine.”

  “He probably didn’t want to worry you. He mentioned he’d been feeling a little off. But that was after he started to look pale and clammy and I asked him if he was okay. He got shaky fast after that, said he was sorry, but he needed to lie down. My aide suggested we call the house doctor.”

  “Yes, sir,” Peabody confirmed. “I didn’t like his color.”

  “He didn’t want the fuss. I was about to send Peabody to get him some water, when he started to seize. We called for medical assistance. There was a rash spreading just under the neck of his sweater. They clicked on allergic reaction right off.”

  “Thank God you were there. I hate to think what might have happened if he’d been alone and unable to call for help.”

  “You could have let me know,” Liza interrupted. “I waited and waited for him at Rendezvous. I was worried sick about Vinnie.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t think of it. At the time, he was my priority.”

  “Of course.” And breathing a little easier, Magda smiled. “The important thing is Vince got treatment quickly.” She glanced toward the ballroom. “He’s going to hate missing all this, after all his hard work.”

  “Yeah,” Eve said. “Bad break.”

  “Man, Dallas, you were so good.” Peabody beamed as they rode the private elevator to base control. “Maybe you should have thought about becoming an actor.”

  “Yeah, that was a big mistake on my part. Magda’s going to have to take it on the chin tomorrow when it comes out about her son. I’m sorry for that.”

  She stepped out of the elevator and into Roarke’s conception of base control.

  “Oh. Oh, Dallas,” Peabody whispered, overcome by the sheer glamour of the owner’s suite.

  “Don’t drool, Peabody, it’s unattractive. And try to remember, we’re here to work.”

  The living area was a long sweep of warm color, plush fabrics, thick rugs in gracious patterns over acres of blond wood. A gleaming copper sculpture sleeked down one wall, spilling deep blue water in a gentle arch into a small, free-form pool decked with flowers and ferns.

  Tumbling from the dome ceiling was a chandelier formed of hundreds of slim globes in that same deep blue. The tone was repeated in the grand piano and the marble hearth and mantel of a cozy fireplace.

  A spiral of copper led up to a second level. On its landing, pots trailed tangled vine roses.

  The atmosphere was so rarefied even the presence of cops, stacked equipment, and a half-dozen portable surveillance monitors couldn’t lower it.

  It was embarrassing.

  When she heard a burst of laughter, Eve strode through the luxury, rounded a curve, and stared hard at the scene in the dining room.

  The long table was loaded with food. The banquet, she thought, had been going on for some time from the looks of it. Plates and platters and bowls had been scavenged for their contents. The air still hung with the scents of roasted meat, spices, sauces, and melting chocolate.

  Ranged around the scene of the crime were McNab, a pair of uniforms—including the young and promising Officer Trueheart, whom she’d assumed would know better—Feeney, Roarke’s head of security, and the culprit himself.

  “What the hell is this?”

  At her voice, McNab quickly swallowed what was in his mouth, started to choke and turn beet-red, while Feeney pounded him helpfully on the back. The two uniforms came to rigid attention, Roarke’s man looked elsewhere. And Roarke greeted her warmly.

  “Hello, Lieutenant. Can I fix you a plate?”

  “You, you—” She jabbed her finger at the uniforms. “At your stations. McNab, you’re a disgrace. Wipe that mustard off your chin.”

  “It’s cream sauce, sir.”

  “You.” She aimed the finger at Roarke. “With me.”

  “Always.”

  He strolled out behind her, through a pretty den where another cop was snacking on cocktail shrimp and studying yet another monitor. Eve gave him a hard look, but kept going until she’d reached the relative privacy of the master bedroom suite.

  Then she whirled.

  “This is not a goddamn party.”

  “Certainly not.”

  “What are you doing, ordering up half the food in New York for my men?”

  “Providing them with fuel. Most people require it at fairly regular intervals.”

  “A plate of sandwiches, a couple of pizzas, okay. But you’ve provided them with enough damn fuel to make them logy and stupid.”

  “Lieutenant, we have hours yet. Without an occasional break from the stress, tedium, and monotony, we’ll all be logy and stupid.”

  He lifted her rigid chin, turned her face right and left, nodded. “Not bad,” he decided, “but you’ll want a blocker boost and another hit of anti-inflammatory.”

  “McNab,” she hissed and made him laugh.

  “You impressed the bloody hell out of him, taking that minor mountain down with one tackle. But did you have to use your face? I’m very fond of it.”

  “Apparently you’ve been brought up-to-date.”

  “Apparently. When will you get your shot at Yost?”

  “I’ll wait for tomorrow. He’ll pay, Roarke. Between local and federal charges, covering two decades, he’ll never see the light of day again. He’ll get maximum, solitary, concrete cage. And he knows it.”

  He nodded again. “Yes, I’ve thought of that. And I’m content that his life from now on will be worse than death for a man of his tastes and habits.”

  “Okay.” She drew a breath. “You may have to be satisfied with that. Taking Yost out was my priority, and I couldn’t risk any delay in doing so. But removing him may screw up this op. I don’t see him as directly involved. He’s an assassin, not a thief, and his type wouldn’t soil themselves by participating in a heist. But in the past few days, we’ve eliminated Lane, Yost, and Connelly from the mix. Naples isn’t stupid. Even with the time and investment he’s put in, he may very well abort.”

  “Mick won’t tip him.”

  She wasn’t going to argue that. “Whether he does or doesn’t, he’s out. With Naples’s main security tool running for cover, a key inside man in the hospital, and his assassin on ice, it’s dicey. Maybe we’ll get Yost to roll on him. Maybe. We’re not going to be able to offer him much in return so it’ll be a matter of pressure instead of trade. We may both have to be satisfied that we’ve prevented a crime, and Magda’s auction goes off as scheduled.”

  “Will you be satisfied?”

  “No. I want the bastard. Giving Yost to Stowe was . . . It just was. But Naples and the rest of them would be mine. I also know that the job doesn’t always give satisfaction. One way or the other, we proceed as outlined.”

  By midnight, she’d OD’d on coffee and had studied on monitor every inch of every public area in the hotel. With Feeney and Roarke’s man she had reviewed, stage by minute stage, every variable in the security system.

  When her commander came in, she rose and prepared to give him a full status report.

  “A moment of your time, Lieutenant.” He gestured her across the room, near the whispering waterfall. His eyes were dark and tired. “Yost self-terminated.”

  “Sir?”

  “He was remanded to federal custody two hours ago. They were checking him into maximum holding in their facility. The clerk had a cup of coffee on his desk. The son of a bitch managed to grab it, smash it, and still cuffed, slit his own throat with a shard.”

  “So he got the easy way after all,” she murmured. “And cost me my link to Naples.”

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you for telling me.”

  “Agent Jacoby’s condition is promising. His medical team bel
ieves his heart is responding to treatment. He’s currently stable.”

  “That’s good. And at least he won’t be around to screw this up. If there’s anything to screw up.”

  “I’d like to see this end with you. You remain in command.” He glanced around the suite. “Looks like there’s plenty of room for one more.”

  “Check out the dinner buffet,” Eve said sourly. “We might still have egg rolls.”

  She stationed herself at the main bank of monitors in the living area. From there she could scan and search the target areas both interior and exterior. The night staff of the hotel went about its business, such as it was. Room service delivered or removed the occasional tray from guest rooms. A few guests returned from a night on the town while others strolled out to begin one.

  Like the city, the building would never be completely quiet. Business and pleasure were twenty-four-hour activities.

  She made an LC in short red satin crossing the lower lobby toward the exit. The woman looked smug and gave her little silver bag a pat. A nice fat tip, Eve assumed, then sharpened her focus as Liza passed the LC on her way in.

  Liza glanced lazily around. A bit too lazily. A bit too thoroughly, Eve decided. “Feeney, take a look. I’d say our girl there has a recorder on. She’s giving her pals an inside look.”

  “Enhance and magnify,” Feeney ordered. “Sector eighteen through thirty-six.” He made grunting noises as the image popped up, then ordered higher magnification on a smaller sector. Eve was treated to a very close view of Liza’s cleavage.

  “Now, that’s beautiful.”

  “Jesus, Feeney.”

  He blinked, flushed. “I ain’t talking about her, you know. The neck thing she’s playing with. The dangle there’s a microrecorder. State-of-the-fucking-art, too. She’s probably transmitting a three-sixty right now. And full audio. The doorman breaks wind, that baby’ll pick it up.”

  “Can you jam it?”

  “Oh yeah. I could jam a transmission from the moon with the equipment Roarke brought in.” He looked so delighted by the idea, Eve had to wave him off.