"Their bodies were found in Cornwall," Roarke told him. "Apparently they weren't found for some time, and it took longer yet to identify them."
"Good Christ. God rest their souls. A lovely couple they were. How did it happen?"
"Who would have wanted them dead?" Eve countered. "Who would have paid a great deal of money to take them out of the equation?"
"I don't know for sure. They'd been having considerable luck running prime liquor and high-grade illegals into London, and dispersing them from there into Paris, Athens, Rome. Stepped on some toes, I imagine, along the way. They'd only been in business, in a serious way, for a couple years. God, I'm sick about this."
He drank from the mug, made an obvious effort to settle himself. "You wouldn't have known them," he said to Roarke. "As I said, they'd only been exporting for a few years, and stuck to Europe. They had a little cottage on the Moors. Liked the country life, Christ knows why."
"Whose profits were they cutting into?" Roarke asked him.
"Oh, a little here, a little there, I'd say. Always room for another smuggler, isn't there, with all the goods in the world to be moved? Francolini, maybe. Aye, he's a vicious bastard, and they'd have cut into him a bit. He wouldn't think twice about sending one of his men up to cut them out, permanently."
"He doesn't use a paid assassin." Roarke remembered Francolini well. "He has enough men to let blood when blood needs to be let. He wouldn't go outside his own family."
"Paid assassin? No, not Francolini then. Lafarge, maybe. Or Hornbecker. Hornbecker's more likely to pay, for blood. But he'd need good reason for it, enough to balance his ledgers."
"Franz Hornbecker, Frankfort," Roarke told Eve. "He was small-time when I was exporting."
"He's had a good run of luck in the last few years." Mick sighed. "I don't know what else to tell you. Britt and Joe. I can't imagine it. Why, can I ask, should a New York City cop be interested in the fate of two up and coming smugglers out of England?"
"It may tie to a case here."
"If it does, I hope you catch the murdering bastard who did them." He rose. "I don't know what sort of work they might have been up to at the end of it, but I can do some asking. On the quiet."
"I'd appreciate any information you can give me."
"Well, we'll see what we see." He bent down and picked up the cat, who was rubbing against his legs. "I'm for bed. Oh, Roarke," he said when he reached the door, "if you've time later I'd like to discuss the business I mentioned to you before."
"I'll have my admin work it in."
"God, listen to the man. Admin working it in," he said to Galahad as he carried cat and coffee away. "Did you ever hear the like of it?"
"Other business?"
"Perfume," Roarke said. "And legal. Whatever else he might be up to, I've told him I'm not interested as it would displease my cop. I'll make those calls for you."
"Why is your unit beeping in there?"
"Is it?" He shifted his thoughts, heard the signal. Grinned. "I think I'm about to land you on Yost's doorstep."
She was on his heels as he walked into his office, then leaning over his shoulder as he studied the data, skimming over the monitor.
"Hmmm. On wall screen," he ordered, and shifting his stance studied the run of numbers and slashing lines.
"What are they? Coordinates?"
"Yes, exactly. This is very interesting. Computer, display New York City street map, screen two. He did a bit of bouncing right here in the city as well. A good cloak, a smart move because it tends to skew the directional search when it becomes that finite."
"What do you mean, East Side to West Side, that kind of thing?" She tried to decipher the numbers, and ended up frustrated.
"More or less. But he shoots back and forth, up and down, a little side trip to Long Island and back. It gives us a couple of possibilities, but the most likely… Computer, enhance grid, Upper West Side. Ah, yes. Now decode directional formula to street location, and match. Do you see?" Roarke asked Eve, laying a hand on her neck as the computer screens flashed and changed. "It appears Yost is a neighbor."
"That's four blocks away. Four fucking blocks."
"Yes. Obviously you and I don't stroll through the neighborhood often enough."
"We never stroll through the neighborhood. How sure are you?"
"Ninety percent."
"Sure enough. Okay, I need a description of that building, the layout, the tenant list, security setup."
"That should be simple enough. Actually, I think I own that building."
"Think?"
"One does lose track occasionally. Computer, who owns the property currently displayed on screen two?"
Working… Property is owned and maintained by Roarke Industries.
"Ah, there we are. Just let me take a look at my real estate files. I'll have the data for you in a moment."
"Lose track occasionally?" she repeated, staring at him. "Of an entire building?"
"I do a bit of buying and selling of property, particularly in my own backyard." He smiled at her. "Everyone needs a hobby."
He sat down, settled in, and brought up the tenant list first. "That's lovely, isn't it? Fully occupied. I do hate seeing nice apartments vacant."
"Cut out the families, the couples, those with roommates, and all single women."
The computer acknowledged her directive, making her jolt a bit before she realized Roarke had it programmed to accept her voice commands.
The list narrowed to ten.
"Bring up application for rent data."
She skimmed down the new information, mentally discarding men over sixty or under forty. And now there were two.
"Jacob Hawthorne, computer analyst, age fifty-three. Single. Estimated annual income two point six million. He has the penthouse, right? Yost would want the best digs."
"Agreed."
"Several years shaved off the age, but I like Hawthorne. Do a run on both these single males. Let's be sure. Damn sure. I'm calling it in."
Within two hours, Eve had her team assembled in her home office. Added to the investigative team were twenty Special Tactics officers and ten hand-selected uniforms. Some might call it overkill, but she wasn't going to risk Yost slipping through a hole.
While she waited for the warrant for search and seize to come through, she ran over the plan yet again.
"There are fifty-six units in the building. They are all occupied. Civilian safety remains a priority."
The building's blueprints were up on-screen. Eve used a laser pointer to highlight each section as she spoke. "Our information indicates that the subject occupies the top floor. There are no other units on that floor. All elevators and glides will be inoperable. Stair access will be blocked off. We don't want him getting off that floor and taking any hostages. This unit has four exits. Two men from Team B will be stationed at each exit. Team A will handle building exits. On command, black-and-whites will move in here, and here, closing off the street to all outgoing and incoming traffic. Subject is not to be terminated. All weapons on stun, medium setting."
She glanced away from the screen to scan faces, to judge and measure. "This is a professional assassin, and he's managed to elude and evade authorities for more than forty years. Confirmed and suspected kills top forty during that time period. He's smart, and he's fast, and he's dangerous. Containing and capturing him within the building is our top objective. If those efforts fail, the second line will take him down. Full-body armor is required for all team members."