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“Plutz? Seriously?”
“Frank J. Plutz, employed by HSO, who lists him as Supervisor, Tech R and D, U.S. Division, in their official file. Which of course is bollocks. He’s a hell of a lot more.”
Now Eve studied the ID shot of a middle-aged man with a thinning crop of gray hair, a round face, a bit heavy in the chin, and mild blue eyes who smiled soberly from the wall screen.
“God. He looks harmless.”
“He survived the Urban Wars in the underground, has worked for at least two intelligence organizations, neither of which worries overmuch about spilled blood. I’d say appearances are deceiving.”
“I need to put a team together and go visit the deceptively harmless Mr. Plutz.”
“I want to play. And I very much want to meet this man.”
“I guess you’ve earned it.”
His eyes gleamed. “If you don’t put him in a cage, I wonder what I can offer him to switch to the private sector.”
Eight
As taking down a spy wasn’t her usual job, Eve opted for a small, tight team. She had two officers in soft clothes stationed at the rear of the trim Upper East Side town house, McNab handling the com along with Roarke in the unmarked van. She, along with Peabody, would take the front.
It struck her as a bit of overkill for one man, but she had to factor in that one man had over forty years of espionage experience, and had managed to slip off a ferry of more than three thousand people with a dead body.
In the van, she cued up the security tape from the transpo station. “There he is, looking harmless. Computer, enhance segment six, thirty percent.”
The man currently known as Frank J. Plutz enlarged onscreen as he shuffled his way through the ticker. “Anonymous businessman, complete with what looks like a battered briefcase and a small overnight bag. Slightly overweight, slightly balding, a little saggy in the jowls.”
“And this is the guy who sliced up the high-l evel assassin, then poofed with her.” McNab, his sunny hair slicked back in a sleek tail, his earlobes weighted with a half dozen colorful studs each, shook his head. “He looks a little like my uncle Jacko. He’s famed in our family for growing enormous turnips.”
“He does!” Peabody gave the love of her life a slap on the shoulder. “I met him last Thanksgiving when we went to Scotland. He’s adorable.”
“Yeah, I’m sure this one’s just as adorable as Uncle Jacko. In a ‘leaving a big, messy pool of blood behind’ sort of way. He got a weapon—we assume—through the scanners without a hitch. Which, unfortunately, isn’t as tough as it should be. More important, from my source, he’s headed or been involved in the invention and development of all manner of high-tech gadgetry, weaponry and communications in particular.”
“Love to meet him,” McNab said and got a quick grin from Roarke.
“Right with you.”
“Hopefully you geeks can have a real nice chat soon.” Eve shifted her gaze to the other monitor. “I’m not seeing any heat source in there.”
“That would be because there isn’t.” Roarke continued the scan of the house. “I’ve done three scans each on heat, on movement. There’s no one in there.”
“Takes the fun out of it. Well, we’ve got the warrant. Let’s go, Peabody. McNab, keep your eye on the street. If he comes home, I want to know about it.”
“Mind your back, Lieutenant,” Roarke said as she climbed out. “They’re called spooks for a reason.”
“I don’t believe in spooks.”
“I bet they believe in you.” Peabody jumped down beside her.
Scanning the building, Eve pulled out her master as they approached the door. “We go in the way we would if we had a suspect inside. And we clear the area, room by room.”
Peabody nodded. “A guy who can disappear could probably beat a heat-and-m otion sensor.”
Eve only shook her head, then pounded a fist on the door. “This is the police.” She used her master to unlock the door, noted the standard security went from locked red to open green. “He’s got cams out here. I can’t see them, but he’s got them. Still, no backups set on the locks, and the palm plate’s not activated.”
“It’s like an invitation.”
“We’re accepting. We’re going in,” Eve said to alert the rest of the team.
