“Look first at newer buildings—shinier, if you understand me. His parents valued tradition, the old, the histories. He’ll want the opposite. And the most exclusive first.”
“I leaned that way for the same reasons, but factoring in the cost—”
“He won’t concern himself,” Mira interrupted, and firmly. “He has more money than he’d ever imagined, and he’s certain he’ll continue to bring in more. A place near clubs, arcades, bars, good shops, or that provides them. Status. He’s always wanted it, but lacked the ambition or the ethics to attain it. He believes he’s found it now.”
“Okay, yeah, I see that. It helps. Appreciate it.”
“I hope you find him, Eve. I’m going to say Happy Thanksgiving, because I believe you will.”
“Thanks. Same to you.”
She jumped on the map, shadowed out the detached and semis, any building more than a decade old unless it had been completely rehabbed in modern style.
“That’s better,” she murmured, studying the results.
She started to cross-reference with the tenant lists Roarke trickled to her.
Cursed when her desk ’link signaled. “Dallas,” she snapped just as Peabody hustled in.
“Lieutenant Dallas, this is Officer Stanski outta Fraud and Financial Crimes?”
“What do you want, Stanski?” she demanded, and seeing Peabody’s puppy dog plea, jabbed a thumb toward the kitchen and the AutoChef.
“We got an auto-alert came in about midnight, and it just got passed through. Not a lot of people working due to the holidays and all.”
“Move it along, Stanski, for God’s sake.”
“Well, sure. What I’m saying is we just got the notification, and it don’t make much sense altogether. It’s on an Anton Trevor, with this code we don’t get—not one of the standards—and it says to notify you asap. So I’m notifying you asap.”
“I’m Homicide, Stanski, not Fraud.”
“I got that, LT, sure.” Stanski’s round face transmitted utter earnestness just as her voice transmitted Queens.
“But it says you, Lieutenant Eve Dallas, Homicide, clear on it. You want us to go ahead and shut down this Anton Trevor’s card, go through the process, or what?”
“I don’t … Hold on.” Something tingled at the base of her neck as she did a quick run.
“Computer, search and display ID for Anton Trevor, New York, New York. Age between twenty-three and twenty-eight.” That should cover it.
> Acknowledged. Working … Results displayed on screen one.
“Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”
“LT?” Stanski said, doubtfully.
“Don’t shut it down. Where was the card used?”
“Got that right here for you. Place called Bar on M, and another, few minutes later—Handy Mart. Both in the New York West, condo center. That’s at—”
“I’ve got the address.” It was one of her buildings. It was one of Roarke’s buildings. “You hold, Stanski. Don’t notify, don’t shut down. Don’t do a damn thing until you hear back from me.”
“No problem here.”
“Send me everything you’ve got, and hold,” she said, and clicking off jumped up just as Roarke pushed open her office doors.
“I’ve got him,” they said together. Both frowned. “What?”
Then Roarke held up a hand. “Go.”