“Almost got it,” Santiago claimed between gritted teeth.
“Speaking of eyes.” Roarke took an ice patch out of his pocket.
“Hey, thanks.” Carmichael cracked it, laid it against her eye. “You carry these around?”
“Tonight I do.”
“Got it. See?”
Carmichael peered out of one eye. Grunted. “Huh! Big! Strong!”
Santiago just flicked his middle finger against his chin. “Keypad here.”
Eve stepped to it. “It wouldn’t be ‘Slice’ this time. This is for the gang, not Jones personally. Simple code the people authorized could remember. ‘Fist’? That’s their symbol.”
When she started to count on her fingers, Roarke rattled the numbers off.
“Six, nine, nineteen, twenty. I’ve … played with codes in my time. It’s a basic one.”
And correct, Eve thought as the lock disengaged.
This panel opened out, and led to a reasonably organized storage space. Illegals in one section, ID supplies in another, a few wrapped stacks of cash, electronics—mostly tablets and PPCs, and likely stolen—a cache of weapons and jewelry, wrist units.
“Can’t be more than five or six thousand street value on the illegals,” Santiago commented. “Might be for personal use, or quick street sales.”
“They’ve got another place for storing and distribution. The feds have that. This? This is like a pool. Everybody puts in, and the lieutenants pass out shares when needed.”
“Stupid” was Carmichael’s take. “Even a half-assed raid would find this. And we’re going to find prints, DNA. The assholes are going into a cage because they’re not smart enough to cover their assholes.”
“I think they used to be smarter. Tag it,” Eve added. “And go home. Briefing at seven-thirty. Santiago, is that your blood on your shoes?”
“What blood? Shit! These are almost new. No, it’s not mine. Is Peabody okay? We heard she got banged up some.”
“Some. She’s all right. Seven-thirty,” Eve repeated, and walked out with Roarke. “‘Barking morons.’ I like that one, and it fits. A pack of wild dogs has more brains.”
She detoured to talk to sweepers already ghosting on scene in their white suits and booties. She thought she might carve out time the next day for another walk-through when the place was empty of cops and CIs.
“You drive,” she told Roarke. “I need to check on some things.”
“Louise will take good care of her. It’s our good luck Louise was nearby.”
“Yeah. But that’s not the only thing I need to check on.”
Just the first. She tagged McNab.
“Hey.” Relief breathed out in the single word. “No internal injuries, no breaks. Her shoulder’s going to be sore for a couple days, but she won’t need the sling. It’s the knee that’s bad. Louise treated it, and is giving us some stuff for it. She’s going to have to wear a brace for a few days, and isn’t real
happy about it. Damn good thing she was wearing the helmet. The asshole that pulled her down with him has a concussion and about a dozen stitches in his head. Shattered his elbow, too. Ain’t that a shame?”
“Okay, good. I’m briefing at seven-thirty tomorrow. If she’s not up for it—”
“She will be. She needs to finish it out. The fall, well, it banged up her pride a little, too, you know?”
“Tell her not to be stupid. Seven-thirty.”
She clicked off, let out a breath. And Roarke patted her hand as he got behind the wheel. Then he took the case of blockers he carried out of his pocket.
“No.”