Page 157 of Bonded in Death

And all three got back to work.

Chapter Twenty-one

At the end of the hour, Eve swiveled in her chair. “Status, Peabody?”

“I’ve got it down to five.”

“Better than me. I’m at eight. Okay.” She pressed her fingers to her gritty eyes. “We’re going to switch it up. Computer lab takes the cars, we take the locations. Fresh—well, not fresh. Different eyes. Roarke?”

He waved her away. “Sticking. May have something.”

Less than nine hours now, she noted. And that second wind had died. Resigned to taking a booster, she started to rise.

“And there you are! Bloody bastard, I fucking see you now.”

“You got it?”

“This one’s important, as he buried it deep. Not much in it, just under four million. I might’ve missed.”

“Four million,” Peabody said as she pushed up and struggled back a yawn. “Not much? Shows the rich are really different.”

“Name,” Eve demanded.

“There’s the other thing. Two names on this account. Reginald and Alicia King.”

“Alicia—close to Alice. He’s still obsessed. Wait, wait, I saw that name. Alicia King.”

“It’s in mine! Wait, wait!” Peabody rushed back to the table and her PPC. “I got it, I got it! A 2060 Mercedes EQE, black, registered to Alicia King, 154 Riverside Drive.

“Jesus!”

Eve started to tag McNab, then heard his bounce, and the others coming behind him.

“We’ve got three solid that hit—”

“Reginald and/or Alicia King, 154 Riverside Drive.”

“That’s one of them. Hell, yeah!”

“Peabody, call in the team. Add Officer Carmichael. I want him and five of his best. McNab, tag Feeney and Callendar. They’re here. Now.”

She yanked out her communicator.

“Commander. We’ve got him. I’m calling the team in now.”

“On my way. Good work.”

“It’s good,” Eve said as she pocketed her comm. “But not good enough until Potter’s in cuffs.”

“And the boy.”

She turned to Summerset. “In a couple hours. Three tops, the boy’s home with his family. His safety’s priority.”

“How many do we expect? How many police officers?”

“Ah…” Her brain, back in business, still couldn’t quite do the math.

“Including the three here,” Roarke said, “seventeen. Eighteen with Whitney.”

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