Down the Rabbit Hole

“Try an image match with the other names,” she began, then caught his quiet stare as she hit a fast vertical to circumvent vehicles that wouldn’t get the hell out of her way. “Fine. If you’re so damn smart, why aren’t you a cop?”


“You’ve just answered your own question. Image matches will go smoother and faster in the lab, but I’ve got something here on Roland. Angus Roland, spiritualist, Edinburgh, 2045 to 2048. Relocated to Istanbul, where he drowned in a boating incident in the Sea of Marmara. Body never recovered. Isn’t that interesting?”

“It’s bollocks, that’s what it is. Image?”

“At a glance, no match, but . . . with a bit of work. Ages are wrong by a few years, but only a few.”

“Changes appearance and ID, fakes death after a relocation. The world’s his sick playground.” Eve ignored the wide eyes of a pedestrian foolish enough to try to beat the sirens, swung hard to miss said idiot, then zipped back to avoid a collision with an oncoming Rapid Cab.

“Stop muttering, Peabody,” Eve ordered.

“She’s praying, Dallas.” She caught McNab’s grin in the rearview. “This is some wicked ride.”

She hit vertical again, did a kind of midair, two-wheeler turn to take the corner tight enough to have the glida-cart operator doing business on it scramble back.

“Wasn’t that close,” Eve said under her breath. “Glorified grifter, that’s what he is. If the other names don’t run the same, I’ll kiss McNab’s bony white ass.”

From the backseat, McNab snickered. “How can I lose?”

The comment pulled a reluctant laugh out of Eve as she arrowed toward Central’s garage. And with a scream of tires and a squeal of brakes, she shot into her slot.

“Thank you, Jesus, Buddha, and the goddess Morgana.” On shaky knees, Peabody climbed out. “I covered my bets.”

“Lab.” Eve doubled-timed it to the elevator. “Three or four years in one location. How long’s he been in New York? How long does he stay after he scores?”

She rode up to her level, cops and staff and civilians clambering on and off. “I need five in my office.” She bulled her way off. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“She needs to put Dupres on her board,” Roarke commented. “Acknowledgment.”

“We’ll get him.” Since Eve wasn’t there, McNab wound his arm around Peabody’s shoulders, gave her a squeeze. “On the scent now.”

When they got off and turned toward the lab, e-geek Callendar crossed paths. She wore a hat with snowmen dancing around the brim and a scarf of purple, yellow, and green in lightning bolt stripes—both courtesy of Peabody’s talent with yarn.

“Yo. Heard you caught a hot one.”

“Scalding. You out?”

“Was. Scalding?”

“Total,” McNab confirmed. “Multi-search, single name cross, global, image matches with variance. Background, deep, on the bogus front—missing and presumed.”

“True? Psychic deal, yeah?”

“True. Fresh DB on the slab.”

“Want assist?”

“Won’t say no.”

“All in.” She pivoted, walked with them to the lab. She gave Roarke a sunny smile. “Dallas?”

“Had to make a stop. She’ll be along.”

“Chill.”

When they reached the lab, Callendar pulled off her green coat with its purple sleeves and unwound her scarf. Under it she sported a cap-sleeve sweater in puce over a long-sleeve turquoise tee, lime green baggies, and buttercup yellow knee boots.

Between her and McNab it looked as if neon had invaded the planet. Then Feeney stepped in wearing his habitual shit brown jacket and wrinkled beige shirt. The contrast only made the neon glow more fiercely.

He scratched his fingers through his wiry mop of silver-threaded ginger and studied the transported electronics with his baggy, basset hound eyes.

“Callendar, let’s you and me give these toys a what-for while the others get set up.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”