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

"Really? As a law-abiding citizen I'm glad to know such matters are treated seriously."
Now he walked to the window, looked down. "This is hard for her," Roarke murmured. "Facing her team, telling them, basically, that all her work, all theirs gets them nothing. That cops have just been kicked aside and told to stand down so the federals can have the glory."
"She's never worn a badge for the glory."
Roarke looked back over his shoulder. This is the man who'd taught her, he thought. The one who had helped mold her into the kind of cop she was. "You're right, of course. The satisfaction then, of knowing you've done your job, seen it through, and made what justice you can for the dead. You know how difficult sexual homicides of this nature are for her."
"Yeah." Feeney looked down at his shoes. "Yeah, I guess I know that."
"I woke her from a nightmare last night, brought on by this. A vicious and violent nightmare," he said as Feeney lifted his head again. "Yet we both watched her stand here this morning, in command of herself and her team. Prepared to do what needed to be done. You understand what that takes, and I've come to. There's one thing those two fucking federals will never understand. Her courage."
He looked back out the window again, watching her walk back toward the house. "Her absolute and unwavering courage. The dead don't matter a damn to them. They're names and data, statistics on discs. For her, they're faces. They're people. No, they'll never understand the guts, and the heart, in her that make her what she is."
"You're right." Feeney blew out a breath. "You're right and that's something to think about. There's something else that can be said, and will be, because I'll say it to her myself, and to everyone else who'll listen. The feds may bring him in, but she's the one who brought him down."
"Nobody's bringing him in." His face set like rock, Whitney stepped back into the room. "He's gone."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Feeney erupted. It was a vicious, feral, and inventive tirade that was peculiarly Irish in tone. It was that brilliant and blue rant Eve heard as she walked back up the stairs, down the hall, and into the room.
And she knew they were screwed.
"Not bad enough they're bastards," Feeney continued. "But they're fucking stupid turnip-brained bastards with it. Tipped him. Tipped the bloody murdering son of a bitch off with their greedy, glory-hunting federal maneuvering so now he's gone rabbit and none of us have a flaming thing to show for it."
"We can't be certain he got wind of the bust," Whitney began, and Feeney, forgetting rank, seared his commander with one violent look.
"Bullocks. That's bullocks, Jack, and you know it. They've a leak, and screwing with our op gave it time to spring. We'd have him now, we'd by Christ have him now if they hadn't wagged their government-issue cocks around."
"He's gone." Eve didn't feel rage. Oddly, Feeney's ripe temper kept her own in check. She simply felt hollow.
"The government bust was a wash." Whatever bitter rage bubbled inside Whitney didn't show. "They moved on Yost minutes ago. He wasn't there."
"Did they check the security cams? Confirm with the doorman or building guards if he was in residence?"
"I don't have the details. The word is the suspect has fled. The apprehension operation failed."
She only nodded. "I would like to confirm, personally, sir."
"So would I." Whitney scanned her face, then Feeney's. "Let's move."
-=O=-***-=O=-
The federals weren't particularly friendly. There was an air of gloom and resentment that spilled through the elegant lobby and glossy hallways of the target building. The looks shot toward local badges dripped with both.
Eve imagined she'd have engaged in a few pissing contests, but Whitney's rank, his bulk, and his cold control cleared the way.
Knowing Feeney was still simmering, she gestured to McNab. "See if you can use some boyish charm to pry some information from the federal E-guys. They'll have checked or will be checking the security discs. I want to know when Yost left the premises, which exit he used, and what he had with him."
"You got it." He sauntered off, hands in the pockets of his strawberry-colored slacks.
"Peabody, see if you can knock on some doors without alerting any federals. Let's see what his neighbors have to say. If you can manage to dig up a maintenance or guard droid, all the better."
Eve stepped into the elevator with Whitney and Feeney, and rode up in silence. She wanted to think. The timing had been close and slick. Yost had solid connections. Through the FBI? Through the NYPSD? Probably both.
He moved fast, and he moved well. But he wasn't finished in New York. Fast and well, but not far then. A hotel? Possibly. She was more inclined to believe he, or his current employer, had a private hole for him to burrow in. Until the job was done.
With this much heat, how long would he wait to make the next target?
Because she was focused on Yost and his pattern, she stepped off the elevator ahead of her commander. And found herself face-to-face with Jacoby.
His eyes went instantly hot, and he shifted to the balls of his feet like a boxer prepping for the next round.
"This is an FBI operation."
"This," Whitney said, moving in before Eve could speak, "is an FBI screwup of major proportions. You want to explain to me, Agent, how you and your team managed to lose the suspect my officers had located?"
Jacoby knew just where the ax was going to fall. He intended to do everything in his power to deflect it onto locals' necks and save his own. "This operation, this federal operation has been ongoing for a considerable length of time. I don't have to explain -- "
"That's right," Whitney interrupted. "You've been trying to catch a whiff of Yost for years. My lieutenant managed to pin him down in a matter of days. You not only took advantage of the careful, successful investigation through my house, but then botched it. If you don't think you're going to have to explain that, Agent Jacoby, to me, to my chief, to my lieutenant, and to your own superiors, you're sadly mistaken. Now ..."
He shifted his bulk, subtly signaling Eve to move on. "Why don't you start with me?"
There were a half-dozen men and women milling around, all still in riot gear with the initials of their agency emblazoned on the back in bright yellow. Eve walked through them and into the penthouse.
It was already being picked apart by sweepers, by other agents. But there was enough to give her what she'd wanted. A chance to see, for herself, how Yost lived.
Richly, she thought, with deep carpets and thick cushions. A wall of glass opened onto the city and boasted a wide stone terrace where artfully arranged plants spilled lavishly out of glossy pots.
Tastefully, she noted, with blending pastels that soothed the eye and carefully arranged paintings in sleek gold frames. The furniture was wood, and old. She knew how to recognize the quiet extravagance of antiques now.
And he lived efficiently. The disarray was minimal in the living area, and was the result, she was sure, of the sweepers. Polish gleamed under the dust already spread.
On a low table with carved and curved feet there was an arrangement of fresh flowers in cut crystal. On a pedestal stand stood a single nude in white marble, all long lines and flowing hair.
There were entertainment and communications centers built into paneled cabinets and already being dismantled.
He wouldn't have worked here, she thought. No, not in his living space. Amused himself here, perhaps, but not serious work. Still she turned a slow circle, recording the room on her mini-unit.
She imagined Roarke would be able to make the paintings, maybe the sculptures and the furniture as well.
The busy on-scene unit took no notice of her as she wandered through. A wide archway led her to a formal dining area with a multi-tiered crystal chandelier and heavy, somehow masculine furniture.
More flowers here, a low spill of color and shape in the center of the dining table. Candlesticks of silver with long white tapers.
The kitchen was directly off to the right, and polished to a gleam. She pursed her lips as she poked into the tank-sized refrigerator and found it fully stocked, as was the AutoChef. Both ran to expensive food, heavy on the red meat.
There were cooking utensils in the drawers, neatly filed in slots. Jars and bottles of oils and spices and the various ingredients needed if someone made a habit of actually cooking.