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“If we identify the house in the painting—and I’m working that by backtracking through old records, looking for an address on at least one of these bastards back in college—we may want to use this damn copter again.”
“A moonlight flight over Connecticut. Ah, romance.”
She hissed out a breath when he began the descent.
“Where are you going to land this thing? Why didn’t I think of that before? Why is this damn thing shaking so much? Christ, I hate this! Where are you putting down?”
“Safe as houses.” He said it as he fought a vicious wind shear.
“People break into houses all the time. Houses burn down. What makes them safe?” she demanded. “Where are you putting this flying tube?”
“On the very handy rooftop of the building we’re going to visit.” If the bloody wind didn’t bash them into it first. “Can’t get much closer than that.”
No, but now there were a lot of buildings entirely too close to that windscreen for her comfort.
He set down on the convenient, if narrow, flat roof near what she thought must be a maintenance shed. But her breath didn’t come easy until he’d switched off the copter and the engine purred into silence.
“Thank Christ.” She unhooked her harness, jumped out onto reassuring concrete, and into the wild wind. “Roof access,” she shouted, nodding at a steel door. “We go in like the suspects are inside. We clear, floor by floor. I know you’re carrying.”
“Of course I am. Do you want me to pop the locks?”
She pulled out her master, turned on her recorder. “Dallas, Lieutenant Eve, and Roarke, expert civilian consultant, entering residence of Frederick Betz. Duly warranted.”
She used her master, nodded to Roarke.
They went in fast, high and low.
“This is the NYPSD,” she called out. “We’re coming in, and we’re armed.”
They went down a short stairway to another door, repeated the procedure, and the warning.
Eve took out her flashlight, swept with it and her weapon.
“Feels empty,” she said quietly, “but we clear.” She gestured him one way, took the other.
There were rooms full of furniture, but more like storage areas than livable spaces. A pristinely clean bathroom, and stairs leading down.
“Clear,” she called out.
“And clear here, but you should come see this.”
She wanted to go down, clear the second floor, the first, but she moved in the direction of Roarke’s voice.
And found a small, well-equipped lab.
“I’m going to venture I’ll find another account or two,” Roarke said, “as it looks as if Betz has a small illegals operation here. And I’ll wager he’s cooking rape drugs in his leisure time.”
She stepped in toward a glass-fronted refrigerated cabinet, studied the organized crates of vials.
“He has family money, family business—though my data is he doesn’t do a lot. He likes to bet on the horses. So he cooks up illegals on the side to support his habit, to have more to stow away. This is his fucking hobby,” Eve said and turned away. “Let’s clear the rest.”
They went down to the next floor, split up again.
This time she called Roarke.
“Suitcase—guest room. Bed’s mussed up like somebody stretched out there. Bottle of liquor, a glass.” She spoke softly as she eased open the suitcase.
On top of a jumble of clothes—a handmade sweater she recognized from the work Peabody did—was a framed photo of Petra Easterday.
