Page 96 of Bonded in Death

“I know it. You can find where he could’ve gotten the face machine, and the material. Even with that, we don’t know how long he’s had it. A couple months, a couple years. But if we can narrow that down…”

“I’ll start on it, and you’ll get a report from EDD, with visuals.”

“I need to write up the interviews, then we’ll start a lot of cross-references. Fancy French restaurants. You can’t eat that every night, sofancy Italian. Or high-end delivery. Prime seats for serious theater, for opera, ballet. High-end men’s shops. Probably tailored. Bootmaker.

“Fancy-ass.”

She considered Roarke. Though he’d taken off his jacket and tie, rolled up his sleeves, he still looked fancy-ass.

“You could take those. The fancy-ass men’s clothes and footwear. He’s going to want good materials, good lines, but on the conservative side. He wants to blend, not stick out. Nothing too bright, nothing edgy. Golf. Golf shirts, golf pants, golf shoes.”

“I take it he golfs.”

“He told everybody he did, bragged about it. He had clubs in his flat. He works out—routinely. I figure him for his own home gym. No pets, he doesn’t like them. Especially cats. If he wants sex, he’d hire it. Top-of-the-line there.”

She picked up her wine and found it, along with the meal, went a long way to soothing rough edges.

“I think he has a house. Could be an apartment, a townhouse, but I think a house, with garage.”

“He’d want the space after so long with so little.”

“Yeah, and because he’s got a lot of work. He had to store the gas canister. And maybe he has more, and likely does. He had weapons, so storage. No live domestics. They might get nosy. So droids.”

“It’s a lonely life you’re describing.”

“Lone wolves aren’t lonely. Once his mission’s accomplished, he can pick up and build a new life. New ID, new place. Somewhere warm and sunny, that’s what he… Wait.”

“I’m going nowhere.”

“He didn’t like British food, British weather.”

“I dislike having an area of agreement with a murdering war criminal, but—”

“When it was over, he wanted somewhere warm, somewhere sunny. Costa Rica was one place—and that’s where Pierce set up.”

“Ah, now I follow. And you think he already has that place.”

“Why come to New York straight off? He needs time to recoup, to rest, to plan. He needs face work, and a place to recover from it. Warm, sunny, maybe tropical. But somewhere where the rich go to play, because he wants that.

“Where do the rich go to play?”

“Anywhere they like, darling.” Then he shrugged. “The Maldives, the Canary Islands—you’re not looking for private islands.”

“No. He needs restaurants, shops, the face guy.”

“Belize. Australia’s Gold Coast, French or Italian Rivieras.”

“Stop. He goes for French food, he talked about Paris. French Riviera. That’s a good start point. He bribed Pierce with enough for solid fake ID and background, a face job, a fancy house and boat. So he’s got plenty left. Probably a different name for that. One for there, one for here.”

She nudged her plate away. “This is good.”

“This time you don’t mean the food.”

“It was, too. But this is good. This is logical. Get the face work, establish yourself, work on your tan, get some good meals in you. Plan and plan some more. Do your research. Where is everyone, and how do you get to them?

“Take your time. A year, maybe two. No one’s looking for you. You’re dead.”

“But the first strike has to be here, in New York,” Roarke continued. “Using Summerset to lure Rossi here, and you into the mix.”

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