AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Well, I took that into consideration. There’s still no patient out of that particular health center with a life-threatening condition in that profile. I can expand it, by spreading more grease as it were, or simply saving time and money by sliding into records in other facilities.”
She considered it. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d let him slither around the line. But even with his skills, it was bound to take hours, potentially days, to hack through the numerous medical facilities in the city.
And it was just a hunch. Just a gut thing.
“Let’s play it by the book, more or less, for now.”
She scanned the names. People were dying, she noted, but there was no killer to hunt and cage. The killer was their own body, or fate, or just bad luck. Tumors sprouting up in inconvenient places, spreading, propagating, brewing inside the brain.
Science could locate them, and if it was early enough, if the patient had the right insurance or bank account, treatment could and did eradicate. But it was often too late, she mused, reading the list of names. She’d had no idea death was so prevalent from inside the body.
Most were elderly, it was true. Most had already celebrated their centennial. But there was a scattering of younger victims.
Darryn Joy, age seventy-three. Marilynn Kobowski, age forty-one. Lawrence T. Kettering, age eighty-eight.
Already dead or dying, she noted.
Corrine A. Stevenson, age fifty. Mitchell B.—
“Wait. Wait. Stevenson, Corrine A., full data.”
“Get a bump, did you?”
“Yeah, oh yeah.” She yanked out her PPC, pulled up the resident information on one of the buildings she’d run, the one a block west of the parking port.
“Stevenson just happened to live within walking distance of the parking port. Twelfth floor—giving a nice view of the area, an excellent view if you happen to have long-range lenses.”
“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.”
