“Yeah, yeah, we’re clear. Salazar and her team are working on it. What’s your ETA?”
“That would be now,” she said, jumping out of the car as Roarke pulled behind the van.
The explosion had her cursing, surging forward toward Salazar’s barricade. Roarke yanked her back before she could plow through.
“What are you going to do?” He kept his hand clamped around her arm.
She yanked out her comm. “Salazar! What’s your status?”
“Five-by-five. Stay out,” she added. “We’ve shut down the booms on the doors, the windows. Checking for trip wires, flash bombs.”
“I’m coming in.”
“That’s a negative. This is my purview, Dallas. Don’t get in my way, don’t distract my team. We need to clear this location.”
“You’re right.” She walked back to the van. “What can you tell me?”
“Big boom, third floor. Nobody was up there,” Callendar added. “The team had entered, cleared first level and were up to two.”
So Eve waited, knowing Salazar’s kind of work couldn’t be rushed. She paced, ignoring the gawkers who never tired of gawking, the media hounds who’d scented a story.
“Baxter, go handle the media. Brush them back, but not too hard. We might need them if Silverman’s in the wind.”
Now she did push through as Salazar stepped out, giving the all clear.
“Fucker had the place wired, top to bottom, inside out and sideways. We got them all. The one that detonated was on a timer. Looks like he piled every electronic device in the place onto the third floor, set his charges. That’s where he had his workshop, so a lot of that’s gone. He built the vests up there.”
Despite the wind, Salazar, baking in her protective suit, swiped at sweat. “Looks to me like he cleared out all the way—empty safe, not a stray sock left in the bedroom closet. I’m going to say he took some toys with him. We’ll go through what’s left.”
“Thanks. Feeney, take a look at what he blew up, see if you can salvage anything.”
“That’ll be a trick,” Salazar commented. “The wreckage is on the second floor now seeing as the boom blew a hole in the floor of the third.”
Eve stepped into a white-walled, narrow foyer. “Find out who owns the property,” she told Roarke.
“Iler bought it about a year ago. I already checked,” he said when she gave him a glance. “He’s claimed a loss on his taxes for maintenance and repair, with a rental income of two hundred a month. That’s so far below market for this sort of property in this neighborhood to be laughable.”
She moved into the living area. “So he
bought the place so Silverman would have a place to stay, charged a minimal rent so the tax guys wouldn’t poke in too deep.”
“Precisely.”
She studied the space—the same white walls, unadorned. Floors that could have used some work, riot bars on the windows.
“He didn’t spend much time down here,” she noted. “Two ratty chairs, an old table, no screen, no stuff, but a lot of dust.
She continued through—empty dining area, empty sitting area, a kitchen and powder room that showed no signs of regular use.
Still, she’d send the sweepers through every inch.
They climbed the stairs to the second floor. The ceiling of a bedroom gaped open, a hole with about a six-foot diameter. Fire suppressant dripped from the edges. The charred rubble, stinking of smoke and fried wiring, lay in piles on the floor.
Feeney in his shit-brown coat, Callendar in her boldly striped one stood in identical poses—hands on hips—and frowned.
“Got our work cut out for us, Cap.”
“We get anything out of this shit pile, we’ll be miracle workers.”