In Death 12 - Betrayal in Death

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