"Could he do it?"
"He could, but it wouldn't be a round of Rocket Racers. And it's a hell of a lot riskier than a vid-game. If the alarm trips, all access and exit areas are automatically sealed. He'd be in a box."
"He was pissed, and he's cocky." Eve leaned back. "He'd have risked it—and since he didn't t
rip any alarm, he pulled it off. He got into Cop Central garage, planted the boomer, and got out. That's the only place he could have gotten to my car during the time frame. Computer, split screen, second image section AB, level two. There's my vehicle, safe and sound."
"You don't want to see it now," Peabody commented and managed to suppress the shudder. "They hauled it in to vehicle analysis. I shot through the automatic requisition for a new unit."
"They'll probably stick a couple of bolts in it and expect me to make do." However foolish and sentimental it was, she almost hoped they did. "Idiot bureaucrats are always…wait, wait, what's this?"
Turbo-van, the computer told her helpfully. Model Jet-stream, manufactured 2056—
"Stop, freeze image. Look at this." Eve gestured Peabody closer. "The windows are privacy tinted. Surveillance vans aren't allowed to have that tint on the driver's area. And those plates, see the plates? That's not a van ID. It's a cab plate, for God's sake. Our boy's in there, Peabody."
"Good catch, Dallas." Impressed, McNab tapped some keys and had the frozen image printing out in hard copy. "I'll run the plates for you."
"Let's see what he does," Eve murmured. "Continue, computer." They watched the van circle the first level, climb slowly to the next. And stop directly behind Eve's car. "We've got him. I knew he'd get sloppy."
The van door opened. The man who stepped out was concealed in a long coat, and his hat was pulled low. "Police issue. That's a beat cop's overcoat. It's a uniform's hat.…But he got the shoes wrong. He's wearing air treads. Damn it, you can't see his face. He's wearing sunshades."
Then he turned, looked directly into the camera. Eve got a glimpse of white, white skin, just a hint of the curve of a cheek. Then he lifted a slim wand, pointed it, and the picture swam with color.
"Fucking hell, he jammed it. What the hell was that he had in his hand? Play back."
"I've never seen a jammer like it." McNab shook his head both in bafflement and admiration as the image replayed and froze. "It's no more than six inches long, barely thicker than a ski pole. You ought to have Roarke look at it."
"Later." Eve waved that away. "We've got coloring, we've got height and build. And we've got the make of a van. Let's see what we can do with it."
She continued to stare at the screen as if she could somehow see through the concealing shades and hat to his face. To his eyes. "Peabody, run the make and model of the van. I want a list of everyone who owns one. McNab, find out when that cabbie lost his tag. And figure this: He's driving into the garage at six twenty-three—that's less than one hour after Nadine's broadcast. Maybe he already had the boomer made up, but he had to have time to rig it for transport, to decide on a plan, to find my location. And you bet your ass he needed time to have a temper fit. How much time did he spend in transpo?"
She sat back again and smiled. "I'm betting he's located downtown, within a ten-block radius of Cop Central. So we're going to start working our own backyard."
Smiling, she ordered her computer to continue. She wanted to see just how long it took the son of a bitch to rig her car.
*** CHAPTER FOURTEEN ***
Eve wasn't in the mood for another marital bout, but she thought it best to get it over with. She needed Roarke's eye, his contacts—and, since she was going to follow her commander's request and travel to Ireland, his expertise in a foreign country.
Since Peabody and McNab had begun sniping at each other like longtime cohabitants, she'd separated them, shooing them off to different assignments in different locales. With their current competitive level, she hoped to have her answers from both of them by midday.
She paused outside Roarke's office door, sucked in a bracing breath, and gave what she hoped was a brisk and somewhat wifely knock.
When she entered, he held up a finger, signaling her to wait while he continued to address two hologram images. "… Until I'm free to travel to the resort personally, I'll trust you'll handle these relatively minor details. I expect Olympus to be fully operational by the target date. Understood?"
When there was no response other than respectful nods, he leaned back. "End transmission."
"Problem?" Eve asked when the holograms faded.
"A handful of minor ones."
"Sorry to interrupt, but have you got a minute?"
Deliberately, he glanced at his wrist unit. "Or two. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?"
"I really hate when you use that tone."
"Do you? Pity." He leaned back, steepled his fingers. "Would you like to know what I hate?"