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“He’s going to try to.”
Eve pulled out her communicator. “Dispatch. This is Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Put out a BOLO on Easterday, Marshall,” she began.
It took nearly an hour for her to set up a search team and ream out the team watching the house. She arranged for the transfer of electronics, questioned Petra, the household staff.
She watched on house security as Easterday slipped out the rear of the house with his suitcase, his face a mask of fear and guilt.
He’d been too smart to take a cab—she’d already checked. Maybe he’d caught one a few blocks away, or ordered a private car service—not his usual, as she’d checked that as well. Or maybe he’d just walked as far as he could walk and lost himself on the streets of the city.
“He doesn’t have that much of a lead,” Reo said as she waited for her cab. “You’ve got transpo stations, public and private, on alert.”
“What I’d do is hire a car from New Jersey, have it take me out of the city. Maybe back to New Jersey, or upstate, or to Pennsylvania. Then I’d hire another one to take me somewhere else. Put miles on, and then with the passport I sure as hell have with me, I’d get on a shuttle to anywhere that doesn’t have extradition with the U.S. I’d change my name, my hair, my face, and poof.”
“You’re a cop, and you could probably get away with it. He’s not thinking that clear. Here’s my cab. If you need me, just tag me.”
Eve got into her own car, and with a heavy heart drove off to question Dennis Mira again.
She didn’t expect him to open the door himself—even half expected he’d still be at the university and spare her the duty. But there he was, with his cardigan buttoned wrong and his kind green eyes smiling at her.
“Isn’t this nice. Gilly just went out to spend some time with friends, and now I have company. Come in out of the cold.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Mira.”
“You aren’t. I only had morning classes today, and was letting my thoughts circle around in difficult places.”
He took her coat before she could stop him, then just stood holding it, as if he’d forgotten what he’d meant to do.
“I won’t be long. Maybe we can just put it over the chair or something.”
“Of course, like family. Now, what can I get you?”
“Nothing. Please. Mr. Mira, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to take you into those difficult places.”
“Of course,” he said easily, and nudged her gently toward a chair. “It’s better to go straight into them than to circle around. You’ve learned something.”
“You know Frederick Betz.”
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t think so, yet. They have him, I’m sure of it. And in the course of investigating we— I found some keys. Two old standard keys and two swipes. One swipe led me to a bank box. There was a great deal of money in it.”
“Yes, I can see that with Fred. He’d squirrel cash away.”
“I also found forty-nine small sealed bags.”
“Illegals.” Now those kind eyes widened. “I would never have thought so. And being a chemist, he c
ould simply, well, mix what he wanted when he wanted it, couldn’t he?”
“Not drugs. Inside each was a lock of hair, and each bag was labeled with a different name. A woman’s first name.”
Something sagged in him—she saw it. And it broke her heart a little.
“You don’t think they’re from women who gave them willingly.”
“Mr. Mira, I believe Betz, along with Wymann, your cousin, Marshall Easterday, Ethan MacNamee, and William Stevenson formed a kind of club. What they called the Brotherhood. And I believe starting back in college they selected women, and raped them.”
“Edward,” he murmured, and stared into the fire. “I knew these men. Not well. Not very well—and I think now not at all. William Stevenson . . . Willy? Did they call him Willy?”
