"Robb, J D - In Death 13 - Betrayal In Death" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robb J D)

"I do." Now. "And that's a challenge in itself."
"My heart." Dramatically, Mick clutched his chest. "I'm not as young as once I was. I can't take this kind of shock to the system."
"You'll live through it, and you'll have to find another setting for your stones."
"A pity. A shame. A sin, really, but what is, is." Mick sighed. "Straight and narrow, is it? Well, I've got something straight as I like to mix things up to keep myself fresh. I've a little enterprise I've started with a couple of fellows. Small chickens compared to a big rooster like you. Scents. Perfumes and the like, with the idea of packaging the product with an old-fashioned spin. Romance, you know. Would you be interested in an investment?"
"I might."
"Then we'll talk about it sometime while I'm in town." Mick got to his feet. "For now I best see what sort of accommodations I've copped here, and let you get back to whatever it is you do with yourself."
"You're not welcome at The Palace," Roarke said, rising. "But you are in my home."
"That's kind of you, but I'm not looking to put you out."
"I thought you were dead. Jenny and the others, save Brian, are. I never had them in my home. I'll have your luggage seen to."
-=O=-***-=O=-
There were already psychiatric, personality, and pattern profiles generated on Yost through various law enforcement agencies around the globe. Still, Eve considered sending them, and her notes on him, to Dr. Mira, the NYPSD's top profiler, for a nutshell analysis.
But a professional killer was, in essence, only a tool. However much she wanted him, she wanted his employer more.
"The FBI estimates Yost's fee for a single hit to be in the neighborhood of two million, USD. This doesn't include expenses and escalates according to the target, and the difficulty of the job."
Eve inclined her head to the screen in the conference room at Central where Darlene's image smiled out at her. "What makes a twenty-two-year-old chambermaid worth two million plus?"
"Information," McNab suggested. He'd been called in, much to his delight, as consult from EDD. Now he sat, his long blond hair meticulously looped through a trio of round red clips, and his pretty, thin face sober.
"Possible. Going there we say the victim had, or was believed to have had, damaging information. If so, why not arrange, for a much lesser fee, a botched mugging? She had a regular routine coming and going to work, used public transportation, and walked, most usually alone, from the transpo stops to the hotel, and to her building. Stick her on the street, grab her purse, and she goes down as a mugging victim. Low profile."
"Yeah." And though he agreed, McNab felt he had to justify his addition to the team by playing devil's advocate. "But there's a real element of risk on the street. She gets lucky, gets away, some good Samaritan comes to her rescue. You take her at work, in a room, and there's no mistake. She's out."
"And the murder gets priority, a big, fat investigative team, and Roarke," she added, though she didn't care for it. "Somebody's got enough wherewithal for a major hammer, he knows just what he's taking on by putting a murder into Roarke's lap."
"Could be he's stupid," McNab said with a glimmer of a grin.
"Could be you are," Peabody snapped back. "Whoever hired Yost wanted it high profile. Media, intense investigation. It's an attention grabber, so it follows he was looking for attention. Maybe paying for it, too."
"Okay, and maybe I agree with that." McNab, miffed, shifted to Peabody. "But why? The hammer and the victim get the attention. He doesn't. So what's his point? We've got no real motive for French. Fact is, we can't say for sure if she was a specific target or just a handy one."
"She's the dead one," Peabody shot back.
"And if she'd switched rooms with another maid that shift, she'd be alive, and they'd be dead."
"McNab, you surprise me." Eve kept her voice mild, and just faintly sarcastic. "That's almost real detective thinking. According to hotel records, James Priory, a.k.a. Sylvester Yost, didn't specify that particular room, or even that particular floor when he booked. This tells me, and is corroborated by the probability scan that I, just for the hell of it, ran before this meeting -- just one of those pesky investigative chores we use over here in Homicide. This tells me," she continued as both McNab and Peabody winced, "that Darlene French was not a particular target. Which in turns tells me that it's unlikely she had any particular purpose or meaning other than being alive and in that room."
"Lieutenant, why does anyone pay a couple million to have someone killed at random?"
"Let's add to that," Eve said with a nod toward McNab. "Why does anyone choose a hammer who's known to every law enforcement agency on or off planet, a hammer who will be identified within hours, to do the job? Why is it arranged that the job takes place in a landmark facility that will stir the scent for the media until drool forms?"
When there was silence, Feeney finally sighed. "I don't know, Dallas, you try to raise them right, give them the benefit of your experience, and they sit like idiots. Roarke," he said. "Roarke's the target."
-=O=-***-=O=-
It was the why that worried her. Why was someone going to this trouble and expense to signal Roarke? Here's what I can do, here's what I can dump right at your front door.
What was the point?
The media would buzz, and he would spin the swarm around. The hotel itself might take a few cancellations and would receive twice that much in new reservations due to the morbid curiosity and sick excitement factors.
Some employees might resign. Others would scramble to fill the slots.
In the end it would cost him nothing, and in the short-term only garner him publicity he knew exactly how to turn to his advantage.
Unless, whoever hired Yost knew the way Roarke worked. Inside. Unless they knew how having an innocent young girl killed on his property, under his employ would work on him.
The price Roarke would pay was personal. And if the motive had been personal as well... Yes, that worried her.
Her motivation for bringing Yost to justice was twofold now. Justice for Darlene French. Answers for Roarke.
At her desk she studied Yost's file again. No family. No known associates. No known address. No nothing, she thought in disgust. For the first time in her career she knew the identity of the killer, had a solid case of physical evidence, every i dotted toward conviction, all within twenty-four hours of the crime.
And had not a single string with which to tug him closer to hand.
No leads. No avenues.
"Where do you sleep, you son of a bitch? Where do you eat? What do you do with yourself when you're off the clock?"
She pushed away, leaned her head back, and closed her eyes.
Low-key, she thought, letting the image of his face, his eyes, his mouth, form in her head. Nothing to grab attention. You're a loner. Nice quiet homes in nice neighborhoods. Gotta have more than one. You're a traveling man. Personal transpo? Probably, probably. But nothing flashy. Solid, dependable, discreet. Classic. Like the music you kill by.
But if you drove into New York, you didn't use the garage facilities at the hotel.
Meat and potatoes, she thought, remembering his hotel meal. Basic, expensive. The clothes he'd worn, in and out, had met the same criteria. As had his luggage.
Luggage.
She sat up, ordered the file disc that contained his check-in.
"Yeah, yeah, one business traveler's wheel-on. Basic and expensive. And new. Looks brand-spanking-new to me. Computer, enlarge sector twelve through twenty-eight, magnify twenty percent."
Working . . .
The portion of the image that showed the suitcase standing tidily at Yost's feet popped. She could see no sign of wear on the heavy-duty black leather, none of the flaws that showed after even minimal trips through the rigors of handling or security checks.
"Enlarge sector six through ten, this image."