“Twenty-eight. Youngest child and only son of Phoebe Harper and Michael Ebersole. He has two older sisters. One, Laurin Ebersole, is the senator from New York. The other, Olivia Ebersole, heads their health supplement division. There’s a seven-year gap between the younger sister and the son.”
“The little brother, the baby boy. Does he do anything in the company?”
“He doesn’t, no, not in a real sense. He has a substantial trust fund.”
“What’s substantial?”
“Fifty million a quarter.”
“Two hundred million a year for doing nothing? That’s above ‘substantial.’”
“That doubles when he reaches the age of thirty. The Harper Group’s in its fourth generation, successful, diverse. His parents steer the ship, primarily, though his grandparents—maternal—remain involved. The family enclave is in the Hudson Valley.”
“Upstate, sure. Somebody—it’ll be his mother—paid for him to show off his art up there. He doesn’t have a job.”
“He’s listed as a consultant, and has another income stream as a voting member of their family foundation.”
“He doesn’t have a job,” Eve repeated.
“Essentially, he doesn’t, no. His data lists him as an artist, a portraitist, based in New York. He claims to have studied in Paris and in Florence. No marriages, cohabs, offspring.”
“Criminal?” she asked as she paused at the conference room door. Because, she knew, he’d have looked.
“None that show.”
“Financials beyond the trust fund and the bogus income streams you told me?”
“As a matter of fact.”
Because he knew they’d be tense, he rubbed both hands lightly on her shoulders.
“He inherited around eighty million when his maternal great-grandmother died about three years ago. For his consultant and foundation work—using that term loosely—he adds another seven and a half million annually. He pays no rent or mortgage, no property taxes or insurance. No vehicles are registered in his name, and he has liberal use of the company card.”
“So he’s rolling in it, and his family picks up the majority of his expenses. Got it.”
She checked the time again. “We’re okay. I’m going to ask Mira if she’ll holo in. If she can do that, can you set it up?”
“I can. I got the impression, which Jenkinson verified, no one’s had time to eat. Pizza’s on the way.”
“You shouldn’t… Oh, never mind. I need his place. Exterior, interior, the security system, locations of cameras. With this time frame, he could be out already. He won’t kill his target, not this soon, but he could already be out.”
“We’ll set that up for you, won’t we?” He put a hand on her shoulder again. “You’ve managed, with considerable obstacles, to identify him, compile a veritable international mountain of evidence against him in a matter of days. Your team’s exceptional, Lieutenant, and exceptional begins with command.”
“Three people are dead.”
“And a fourth won’t be. You’ll carry the dead,” he murmured, “but don’t lose sight of the ones you’ll save.”
“I want him in a cage.”
“And you’ll put him there. He’s pathetic, Eve, but that doesn’t make him less vicious, and he’s been shielded by a multibillion-dollar company that’s not only allowed him to use their resources to kill but, I imagine Mira will conclude, indulged him to the point he feels he’s entitled to whatever he wants, including murder.”
“All of that.” It churned in her belly. “Yeah, all of that. I need to update Whitney, then we’ll get started.”
She lingered in the hallway to contact her commander. “We have his name, his face, sir. And an address.”
“And within your deadline. What do you need from me?”
“I have what I need, Commander. I’m about to contact Reo, then brief the team, then we’ll bring him in.”
