“Have at it. I need everything you can get me on this building. Every square foot of it you can get.”
“You’ll have it. Give us another hour.” Feeney rubbed his eyes. “And a hell of a lot of coffee.”
Eve checked the time. Somehow it had gotten to be past four in the morning.
“You’re sure about the hour?”
“An hour,” Feeney confirmed. “Maybe less.”
“Use what you need, take what you need. Peabody, keep at it. Let’s see how many people you can connect to Red Swan, and add in the delivery service to the search. He’d need some there, too, even if he’s running the front as legit.”
Alone in the room, she looked back at the board. She’d get back to those faces. More, she’d get them out, all she could.
To do it, she needed more than data. She needed cops.
Taking out her ’link, she started calling them in.
She tagged her bullpen, including Uniform Carmichael; she tagged Reo, Willowby, and added Lowenbaum from SWAT. She, with reluctance, woke up her commander, and considering the proximity of the building to the river, requested both air and water support.
Then she sat, used the conference room comp to do some digging herself on Devereaux. EDD would get her what she needed, but she thought of wealthy—seriously wealthy—men, and how often they ended up on the society pages with some snazzy woman—or man—on their arm.
She started back, scanning for photos, names of women he escorted. He had a partner, a female partner, not a twenty-or thirty-year-old, according to Dorian. But older.
Maybe he mixed business with pleasure, or had at one time. He had to meet her somewhere, build a relationship, cement trust.
Her eyes burned, begged to shut down for just a few minutes. The back of her neck felt like wires hummed and twisted under the skin.
She’d need a booster before much longer, she admitted, and she hated them.
She scanned through photos and quick write-ups—Devereaux in tuxes, beautiful women in glamorous gowns. Slick suits, sleek cocktail dresses.
Blondes, brunettes, redheads, curvy or stick thin, but with common denominators: young and stunning.
But nothing and no one clicked, not with the socialites, the heiresses, the celebrities and high-dollar models.
When her eyes blurred, she rubbed them clear. Thought about more coffee.
Wasting time, she decided, and with her focus fading, nearly missed it.
The photo was more than twenty-five years old, a glossy report from the Met Gala. Devereaux, his hair lush and gold, had his arm around the waist of a statuesque woman in a figure-hugging red gown cut low to showcase impressive breasts and an equally impressive waterfall of diamonds and rubies. Her pale, almost silvery blond fall of hair rained down to her shoulders, and a sparkling pin swept it up behind one ear.
A ruby pin in the shape of a swan.
“‘Iris Beaty,’” Eve read, “‘flaunts her past as the notorious madam of Red Swan with a diamond and ruby hair clip. Will she rub elbows with clients enjoying the rarified air of the Met Gala? Discreet as ever, Ms. Beaty won’t name names even now that sex workers are licensed and legal.’
“Iris Beaty,” Eve ordered. “Official ID and data on-screen.”
As she studied the older, still beautiful face, the ice-cold eyes, Eve saw predator. She pushed up, dragged her hand through her hair, pacing now as she read the background.
“Holy shit. I’ve got you.” Ignoring the running footsteps, she continued to read.
“Red Swan,” Callendar said triumphantly.
“Iris Beaty.”
“Well, hell.” Blowing out a breath, Callendar looked at the image on-screen. “We’ve way underestimated your e-skills.”
“Cop skills, no real e about it. I found a photo of her with Devereaux, and she had a damn red swan pin in her hair.”
“Ballsy.”
“How did you find her?”
“She wrote a damn book, can you check that? Flight of the Red Swan. It popped in one of my runs. High-class escort service back in the twenties. She had a good long run finding dates at a few thousand a bang for people who could afford it. According to the summary I read, the book’s full of juice, but she’s all coy about saying who bought who and like that. She wrote it after sex work was legalized, regulated.
“And I connected her to Devereaux—old friends, right, maybe more. And he helped finance her legal LC business.”
“Is that still running?”
“No. She sold out and retired.”
“I’ll buy sold out. Legal, regulated, monitored, the paperwork, the license fees, taxes? Cuts into the profit. And I’m betting some of those earlier clients paid steep to keep her—what did you call it—coy. But she didn’t retire. Just changed direction.”