“Let me see them again. Not him,” Rhoda said as the first displayed. “I realize now he looks a little like—and this is embarrassing—Scott Trevor from Galaxy Force.”
“You watch Galaxy Force?” Baxter shot a finger at Rhoda.
“Addicted.”
“We need to have drinks and talk. And you’re right. He could be Scott Trevor’s older cousin. How about this one?”
She studied, closed her eyes, refocused. “Could we hold that one, come back to it? I’m just not sure.”
“No problem.” Baxter switched to the next.
“There’s just something . . .” She closed her eyes again, sat quietly, then opened. “Oh. Oh, I see. He’s shaved his hair. He’s shaved his head, and there’s something, else, something, I’m not—his nose. His nose is thinner now. Thin and straight—it looks as if it’s been broken and set poorly in this picture. He usually wears sunshades, even when he comes in after dark, almost always wears them. That’s Mr. Nordon. Oliver Nordon. He visits Mr. Iler, most often in the evening so I wouldn’t see him then, but I’ve seen his name on the log. And I’ve cleared him myself when he comes during the day. Mr. Nordon.”
“Got it,” Trueheart said. “Got him. Sergeant Oliver Silverman, under Captain Iler in Seoul.”
“Sergeant Oliver Silverman,” Roarke continued, “age thirty-two at the time of the attack. Wounded therein—broken leg, severe burns on torso, arms. Ah, shrapnel damaged his genitals, resulting in partial amputation and the fitting of a prosthetics.”
“Youch,” Baxter mumbled.
“Both medical and psychiatric evaluations determined Silverman should be honorably discharged.”
“Something else there. If he’d wanted to stay in, they’d have found a place for him unless they deemed him unfit. Wounded warrior.”
Roarke nodded at Eve. “I can look deeper.”
“Later. Do you have a current ID shot of Silverman?”
“Went off the grid after discharge.”
“A lot do, Lieutenant,” Trueheart said. “Plenty of sidewalk sleepers are vets.”
“Yeah. But that’s no sidewalk sleeper. Run Nordon,” she told Roarke.
“I am. Oliver Nordon, age thirty-six, freelance security consultant, residential and commercial.” He glanced at Eve. “Good call, Lieutenant.”
“Give me an address.”
“It’s 563 West Sixty-Third.”
“Baxter, warrants for Iler and Silverman/Nordon. Search and seizures on both locations. Use Reo, she’s fast. Trueheart, I want cops—team of four—sitting on Silverman’s address five minutes ago. In body armor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Two more uniforms to this location,” she added. She snapped into the communicator already in her hand. “Feeney, eyes and ears, 563 West Sixty-Third. Apartment number?” she asked Roarke.
He didn’t look up from his PPC. “No. Townhome, three stories.”
“You catch that?”
“I ain’t deaf,” Feeney said.
“Suspect data coming to you . . .”
“Now,” Roarke finished.
“He’ll be armed, Feeney, and he’s fucking dangerous. Full body armor for your team. I’m tagging Salazar. He’ll have explosives.”
“I’ll tap her.”
“Warrants are in the works, uniforms en route to cover. Bomb sniffers, Feeney. Nobody takes the door until the sniffers clear it. And I want residences and businesses on both sides of the target location evacuated. Baxter, status!”
“Reo’s pushing it.”
She snatched the ’link from his hand. “Push faster, harder.” Tossed it back to him. “We’ll do the take down here then be at your location.”
She clicked off, narrowed her eyes at the image on-screen.
“Here’s how it’s going to go,” she said, then outlined the two-pronged op.
“She’s marvelous,” Rhoda murmured.
Roarke merely smiled. “Isn’t she?”
“Warrants coming through. Baxter, Trueheart, take your positions. Carmichael, Shelby, you copy?”
“Roger that.”
“Roarke, with me. You can take the block off the fiftieth floor, Rhoda,” Eve told her when they reached the elevators. “Just this car for now.”
“Good luck,” Rhoda called out as the doors shut.
“This one shouldn’t give us too much trouble. But, you never know.”
“It’s Silverman you’re worried about, and I agree. By the way, you weren’t wrong about Markin.”
“Markin? He’s in this?”
“Not this, no. It’s embezzlement he’s in—from his wife’s personal account, and her business. I poked around a bit since we started our day so early.”
“Huh.”
“She hasn’t noticed yet, but she will. Or her accountants will. I wonder if her parents might be a bit more understanding about her divorcing him under the circumstances.”
“It might be kind of fun to take him down myself instead of passing it along. Like a—that thing—palate cleanser.”
They walked down to Iler’s apartment. Eve buzzed.
No comp inquiry this time, she noted. He’d shut it down.
“Check it, open it,” Eve said.
Roarke took out a device, ran it over the door, the locks. “It’s clean. No explosives.”
In less time than it took to talk about it, he melted through the locks. They stepped in as Iler swung a leg over the terrace wall.
As Eve charged forward he grinned, then began a rapid descent on his climbing cable. He kept that grin aimed up at her, riding down with a large backpack, a second hefty bag strapped cross-body.
Dropped down to the sidewalk. Surrounded by cops.
“Another good call, Lieutenant.”
“He had to be ready to go. Once he told his partner how I pushed about the weekend even a pair of morons could figure out we’d linked Banks’s murder to the two explosions. And Iler had the crappiest of crap alibies for the time in question.”
She rolled her shoulders. “One down, one to go.”
21
Roarke drove so she could keep current with the team.
“Getting you eyes and ears now. Place looks locked down tight—privacy screens engaged,” Feeney told her. “And, lookee here, he thinks he’s going to block us out with some filters. Give him hell, Callendar.”
“Giving him all kinds, Cap. Burning through.”
“Sniffers?” Eve demanded.
“Starting to sniff now. Okay, through the filters, going eyes first. Got a basement level, starting there and working up. Callendar, make me proud. I’m going to talk to the sniffers.”
“Basement’s clear, Dallas. Going up. Hey, did you know McNab can do cartwheels?”
“What?”
“He did a triple heading out the door—first level, nobody there—for Hollywood. I scored it an eight-point-five out of ten because, a little wobbly on the third. Second floor, clear. Bunch of us are having a viewing party at the Blue Line on Sunday so—Target is clear. No heat source. No humans. No bad guys. Sorry.
“Not only that,” Feeney said as he climbed back in the EDD van, “he’s got the place wired.”
“Are you clear?” Eve demanded.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re clear. Salazar and her team are working on it. What’s your ETA?”
“That would be now,” she said, jumping out of the car as Roarke pulled behind the van.
The explosion had her cursing, surging forward toward Salazar’s barricade. Roarke yanked her back before she could plow through.
“What are you going to do?” He kept his hand clamped around her arm.
She yanked out her comm. “Salazar! What’s your status?”
“Five-by-five. Stay out,” she added. “We’ve shut down the booms on the doors, the windows. Checking for trip wires, flash bombs.”
“I’m coming in.”
“That’s a negative. This is my purview, Dallas. Don’t get in my way, don’t distract my team. We need to clear this location.”
“You’re right.” She walked back to the van. “What can you tell me?”
“Big boom, third floor. Nobody was up there,” Callendar added. “The team had entered, cleared first level and were up to two.”
So Eve waited, knowing Salazar’s kind of work couldn’t be rushed. She paced, ignoring the gawkers who never tired of gawking, the media hounds who’d scented a story.
“Baxter, go handle the media. Brush them back, but not too hard. We might need them if Silverman’s in the wind.”