"She's a girl. She has a deep-seated need to indulge her femininity, in the most luxurious and exclusive manner available. She's been hard at work for some time now, planning and executing her agenda. She'll want a break. In the past, she took a short vacation between every hit. Resorts primarily, with top-flight treatment centers. It's pattern. She's moved on her victims in rapid succession this time out, and this after being incarcerated for a number of years. She'll need to renew herself, recharge, and her most likely method would be a spa facility where she can be pampered and can relax before she..."
She trailed off, then dug back in. "... before she moves on what I believe is and has been the central target. She'll want to groom, prepare, relax, before she comes at him. I've run a probability on this theory and got just over ninety percent. She doesn't change, Commander. At the core, she doesn't change."
"Assuming your theory is correct, there are countless facilities of this nature—numerous in this city alone."
"It wouldn't be here. She'd want to get away, that's indulgence, and she wouldn't risk having a consultant who might have seen her on the media, get up close and personal with her face. That's brains. It's most likely she'd go out of the country where the media attention on murders in New York City isn't as intense."
She watched his expression, saw him consider that. Agree with that. "I've already narrowed down the field, and intend to start checking with the most likely locations and working my way down the list."
"Then do so. However, that angle doesn't preclude preparing for another option. If you tag her, are successful in tracking and apprehension, then this is put to rest. If you don't, we'll have a trap in place. Settle yourself down, Lieutenant. And listen."
Whitney turned to Roarke, and nodded.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
"In three day's time," Roarke began, "there's a charity function, a dinner dance to raise funds for medical transports and equipment needed by the Canal Street Clinic. I believe Dr. Dimatto mentioned this to you, Lieutenant."
"I know about it."
"I accepted the invitation to attend some weeks ago, so that's public knowledge if anyone was wondering when I might be socializing at some public function in the city. The event is being held at one of the ballrooms at the Grand Regency Hotel. Happens that's one of mine."
"Shock," Eve said in a voice that dripped sarcasm like poisoned honey. "Amazement."
"It also happens that the ownership is held by one of my subsidiaries, and isn't so easily traced to me. Not that all appropriate business fees and taxes aren't promptly paid," he added with a cool amusement, "but a casual glance, even a more curious one wouldn't necessarily shake my name out of it—which cancels out any reluctance Julianna might have about coming for me on my own turf. So to speak. And also gives the advantage of knowing the security bottom to top, and being able to adjust that security to the particular situation."
Though he paused he got no response from Eve, nor had he expected any. "Just to ice the cake, it's just been leaked to the media by my public relations people that not only will I attend the function, but will be making a sizable donation. The donation will be hefty enough to ensure strong media attention for the next little while."
He'd taken over the room, Eve realized. Not just the discussion but the goddamn room. He was in command now, and it infuriated.
"By now, if she wasn't already aware of it, she'll know I'll be attending a public event where there'll be a great deal of people, a great deal of food and drink, and a large staff serving them. She'll know my wife will be attending with me. It's a tailor-made opportunity for her. She'll take it. Odds are, she'd already planned to do so."
"We can't be certain of that," Eve corrected. Though she'd already thought of it, had been planning on finding a way to wiggle out of the event. "If she's just learning of it, it's a narrow window of time for her to confidently blend herself into the staff or guests, and for us," Eve added, "to confidentially assess and adjust security to ensure the protection of civilians. You won't be the only rich bastard there. This proposal puts others at risk."
He brushed off her concerns, her objections, with an elegant shrug. One he knew would madden her. "The function takes place whether or not I attend. If she's targeted someone else ahead of me, they're already at risk. And if she has targeted someone else, the temptation to shift to me while you're there would be very great. It's you she wants to hurt, Lieutenant. I'm just her weapon against you. Do you think I'll be used for that? For anything?"
"In your opinion," Whitney said into the thrumming silence, "does the suspect have any reason to believe you're aware of her intention to hit Roarke?"
"I can't know what she's—"
"Lieutenant." Whitney's tone bit. "Your opinion."
Training warred with temper, and won. "No, sir. This subject doesn't fit her pattern, and she specifically informed me of the type she'd targeted. She would have no reason to suspect or believe that I would have concern in this area, that I would look outside the box. She respects me, but is confident I'm running behind her chasing only the trail she's left me."
"Run the play, Dallas." Whitney got to his feet again. "Work the angles, plug the holes, close the box. Whatever equipment and manpower you need, you'll get. We'll discuss this further tomorrow. Tomorrow," he repeated, anticipating her protest. "When tempers aren't so close to the surface. I respect your temper, Lieutenant, as I do your rank and your abilities. Dismissed."
Not trusting herself to speak, Eve gave him a curt nod and walked out.
When Peabody trotted out after her Eve's snarl was enough to hold her off.
"Keep out of the line of fire." Roarke laid a hand on Peabody's shoulder. "It's me she wants to blast into small, bleeding pieces, but you could get caught in the stream and you've had a good day till now."
"From where I'm standing you deserve a blast. Don't you think she took enough of a pounding yesterday?"
To Roarke's considerable surprise, Peabody turned on her heel and marched in the opposite direction. With his temper notching up from slow burn to fast simmer, he strode after his wife. He caught up with her just as she stalked into her office and managed to slap a hand on the door an instant before it slammed in his face.
"Get out. Get the hell out." She grabbed discs, shoved them into a file. "This is still my area."
"We'll discuss this."