“Sass,” Eve repeated. “She’d have netted twelve hundred dollars at that rate, as a bonus. They also deduct a thousand for any girl who dies. Smart business. Make it work, you get a piece of the action. Fail, it comes out of your pocket.”
“Are you okay?”
“Five by fucking five. I’ve only gotten through six months, and already added three we didn’t have. Younger ones. Six to ten.”
“I think I’ve got two.”
“Two what?” Distracted, Eve turned, then cleared her head. “From the search?”
“Yeah, I’ve got it running on auto now because I wanted to get this to you fast. Can I put them up?”
“Yeah, Jesus.”
“Okay, first one? Maxine Pryor, former army, less-than-honorable discharge, sixteen years back. She worked as a guard for Metro State, Atlanta, from 2056 to 2058. Some slaps in her file there. She took a job as a security guard at Red Swan. It says Atlanta, but the address—her residence—is bogus there, so I dug deeper and found one that matches in Chelsea. It’s under L. M. Pryor, and she changed hair color, had a little work done, but it all fits. One marriage, divorced fifteen years. No offspring.”
“That’s good. Give me the next.”
“Cecil B. Doggett. He was a cop in Baltimore City, terminated after twelve years on the job for excessive force, extortion, and ultimately striking a superior officer. Picked up work as a prison guard at a minimum-security prison in rural Maryland, and for the last five years has been employed by Red Swan as a recruitment officer.”
“Is that what they call the scouts in polite company? Address?”
“In Maryland, outside Baltimore. He has a black van registered in his name, no spouse, no kids. I dug down more, and he’s got a damn nice house, a boat, and a Panther ZX convertible roadster. He’s living pretty large on what he reports as his annual earnings.”
“Wonder what kickback the scouts get from sales? This is good, Peabody. Let’s go wake up Maxine Pryor.”
“Do we want a warrant?”
“The first tag she’ll make is to her superiors and their lawyers. We need to convince her not to do that. We use Marlene Williamson. You’re a liability, you’re dead. Then—”
She broke off as she heard McNab coming with a double-time prance.
“Got through.” His face, a little pink from the run, beamed success. “Jesus, the layers, and obsessed much, a million separate files.”
“Location, McNab.”
As he reeled off an address, Eve ordered the map on-screen. “I had that one. What the hell is it?”
Before she could call that up, he told her. “It’s a delivery hub and warehouse for Reliable Delivery Services. It’s been around for like ever. Maybe close to ninety, a hundred years, global, but they have their headquarters in New York, always have.”
“Who owns the building?”
“Same guy who owns the business—lock and stock,” McNab told her. “Roarke knows him, some. They’re coming, but the cap told me to fly, so I did.”
He paused, let out several huffing breaths.
“Jonah K. Devereaux, inherited the whole deal from his parents when their private shuttle went down in the Sea of Japan when he was like twenty-something. He got it all.”
“Already a multi-billion-dollar industry,” Roarke added as he walked in. “Under his eye, it’s continued to run smoothly enough, though he hasn’t implemented any expansions in the last decade or so. He has the family home on Long Island as his New York residence, and I believe villas in the south of France, another in the Caymans. I haven’t checked as yet, but he may have more.”
“You know this guy?”
“Very slightly. The foundation his parents started when he was still a boy donates generously to some organizations I also support. I brushed up against him a few times at charity events but not, that I recall, in the past few years. The word is, such as it is, that he prefers spending his time on one of his estates. He’s never married, but has been known to enjoy the company of women, usually professional women, and younger. Not children,” he said quickly. “I’ve never heard a whisper of that, or I’d have passed it on to you already.”
“What’s younger?”
“Twenties, thirties. He’s in his sixties, maybe early seventies, and that wouldn’t be unusual.”
“I need more on him, on the business, on Red Swan.”
“We’re here to get it,” Feeney told her. “Callendar’s upstairs pushing on Red Swan. We don’t need the fancy to look at Devereaux or RDS. Figured to use your bullpen.”