“I got a tip shortly ago his mother’s house goes on the market tomorrow—today,” she corrected. “Figures he wants to move her somewhere … quieter after he’s done with his mission. Which means, logically—”
“He’d put his own place up for sale.”
She saw the light in Abernathy’s eyes, recognized it as the gleam when a cop knew a sharp, distant corner had finally been turned.
“You’ve done a property search?”
“He used the Padriac O’Karre Foundation as the shell—that’s Roarke when you unscramble it—and apparently he’s been meticulous with the paperwork on it. Single-family home, just outside the city, listing price, when it lists tomorrow, is three and three-quarter million euros. A jewel at twice the price, according to the listing hype. You can read all about it yourself.”
“And I shall, as soon as I relay this.”
He got to it while they finished clearing the warehouse.
“Next location,” Eve ordered.
“Alexi Godinov’s pied-à-terre,” Abernathy commented. “I’m just catching up with the synopses on each. Godinov runs a wide and dubious organization throughout Russia, Ukraine, and into the Baltic. Vodka and other spirits are his cover, though he does well in the distilling and distributing of same.
“Money laundering, false identification creation—excellent work, by the way—Internet scams, some smuggling. He steers clear of violent crime, and has a number of important connections to various government officials.”
As he spoke, he referred to his PPC. “He often visits New York,” Abernathy went on as Feeney drove. “Sometimes with his wife and children, sometimes with his mistress, occasionally with business partners. We’re aware he makes the property available to some, for a fee, when it’s not in use. But again, he generally steers clear of violence, and of someone like Cobbe.”
“Steering clear of violence meaning he carefully puts a few degrees of separation between himself and any violence he may, indirectly, order.”
Abernathy nodded at Roarke. “Just so. You’re acquainted?”
“No, but I know his rep well enough.”
Feeney pulled up just short of the gate.
“Some place,” McNab said as he started the scan.
Security lights, decorative lights beamed and washed over the spread of lawn, the splashes of spring flowers and blooming trees. It outlined the classical lines of the three-story house with its attached garage.
“Electronic signals, main floor—two droids—no movement. Moving to second level. Two signals—human—horizontal. Sleeping. And two more—same deal, two rooms. Smaller. Kids.”
Abernathy leaned closer to study the screen. “Very likely Godinov himself, as he has two children—eight and ten, boy and girl, respectively. I can check to see if he’s traveled to New York.”
“Do that. Scan the rest, McNab. Let’s clear it.”
“Moving on. Single signal, third floor, also horizontal.”
“They have a nanny,” Abernathy said, then shifted to a conversation on his ’link.
“Check the garage,” Eve ordered. “And there’s some sort of outbuilding there. Tool or garden shed, probably, but scan it.”
“Godinov and his family, along with the nanny, arrived in New York just this afternoon. We’re working on a warrant to enter and search the Dublin house. We’ll get it, I promise you.” Abernathy pocketed his ’link.
“Finish the scan anyway, then we cross it off, move to the next.”
She’d had a good feeling about this one—even though the comp had put the warehouse as top probability. She had to put that aside, focus in on the next.
“While the next two are lower probability, according to the run, they’re more convenient to where he’s shopped, to where he picked up the woman he killed. No garage for the vehicle he’s rented, but there are rentals in the area for that, too.”
“Let’s see what we have here.”
Abernathy pulled up the synopsis. “Ah, just outside the famous Meatpacking District. A three-and-a-half-story home, which includes the half basement area. And, yes, I see by the maps very convenient to his choice of shops—a bit of a distance from where he took that poor cat. Owned by the Amazonian Group, and listed as a business rental or event space.”
Frowning, he glanced over at Roarke. “You have Reginald Privet as the owner.”
“That’s right. The Amazonian Group is a shell. It’s his property.”
“We don’t have that information.”
“I do.”
“I need a moment.” He pulled out his ’link again, shifted away.
“Who’s Reginald Privet?” Eve asked Roarke.
“Someone you’d like to see in a cage, I imagine. He deals in weapons and sex, basic money laundering, gambling. Gambling’s a personal issue for him, as he’s unable to resist, often loses, and is, for the most part, a bit of a dick. His sister, Alicia, is smarter, a great deal meaner, and in actuality in charge. But she loves her feckless brother and gives him plenty of cover.”
Eve glanced over at Abernathy, who continued to mutter on his ’link.
“Scan it.”
“Starting scan, basement level. Got some blocks here,” McNab announced. “Good ones.”
Roarke moved over to work with him, and Feeney climbed back from the front to observe.
“Somebody doesn’t want any sniffers. Keep working it. I’m going to take a better look at the alarms and security. See what we have to get through if this is the place.”
Roarke passed Feeney his PPC. “I have it on there. But as these blocks weren’t on the specs, I’d say they’ve done some updating without permits.”
Eve followed her gut, tagged Reo.
The APA blocked video, groaned. “Oh, come on, Dallas!”
“I need a warrant, and now. Now.” She rattled off the address. “We believe Lorcan Cobbe is inside.”
“Give me five. We’ve already got a judge on tap for your op. He just has to fill in the address.”
“Get through the damn block,” Eve ordered as Peabody made way for Whitney to crowd into the back. “Van two, stand by. Baxter, True-heart, once they’re through, take the rear. Santiago, Carmichael, the south; Jenkinson, Reineke, north. Officer Carmichael, mobilize your team. We cover every exit, doors, windows, rat holes. Feeney, Callendar, the second the warrants clear, start on the security. If we’re wrong, we put everything back where it was, move on.”
But they weren’t wrong, she thought.
“We’ve got Privet,” Abernathy announced. “That is to say, we turned him about three months ago—the gambling debts, trouble with a competitor. I’ve just spoken with the inspector in charge of that matter. He’s never spoken of Amazonian, nor that we can find, tapped into its considerable resources to dig himself out of the hole he’s in.”
“The resources might not actually exist,” Whitney put in.
“No, they do.” Roarke paused in the work. “It’s a good, hard shell, and funds are funneled in and out. Smuggling’s its real purpose—people, goods, weapons, illegals. Ah, fuck me, it’s not his, it’s hers. Alicia’s. She put his name on it.”