“Let me know when he’s in custody. Who is he?”
“Jonathan Harper Ebersole. His family’s the Harper Group, multibillion global company.”
“Yes, I know the Harper Group.”
“He’ll have the best team of lawyers that money can buy.”
“You have the evidence?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I do. I could bring him in now, sir. But…”
“You intend to catch him in the act.” He may ride a desk, but Jack Whitney was all cop. “Seal it up tight.”
“It’s a risk, Commander. I think it’s one worth taking.”
“Your call, Lieutenant. I’ll contact Reo. Go brief your team.”
Her call, she thought, and tucked her ’link away.
“McNab, find me any other properties owned by the Harper Group in the city. I want any that could be used as an art studio.”
“We pulled them, Lieutenant. They’ve got what people like to call a pied-à-terre on the Upper East. A penthouse. The cap talked to the building manager. It’s used when the family or a guest or exec, whatever, comes in.”
“Not that. Anything else?”
“They’ve got offices downtown, Financial District, and own the building. No residential in it.”
“No.”
“They’ve got warehouses, one in Brooklyn, one over by Kennedy. No residential, used for housing product and shipping. That’s it unless you want us to go wide.”
“No, that’s good.” And it lowered the risk.
“He takes his targets home. Peabody, bring the suspect on-screen.”
The eyes, she thought. The eyes weren’t quite right. Other than that, he looked ordinary enough. Not unattractive, but not striking, not especially memorable. A narrow face, soft in the chin. Carter had that right. A high forehead with the brown hair pulled back and wound into a tight knot just behind the crown of the head.
“Jonathan Harper Ebersole,” she began. “Age twenty-eight, five-eight, a hundred and thirty-five. Rich bastard who’s done nothing to earn it. Mira?” she asked Roarke.
“She’s ready when you want her.”
“Please bring her in.”
It always surprised her to see Mira in casual clothes. Instead of a suit, she wore pants cropped at the ankles with tennis shoes and a flowing shirt.
“Thank you for making the time, Dr. Mira.”
“More than happy to.”
“Ebersole, Jonathan Harper, the youngest child and only son of Phoebe Harper and Michael Ebersole, who own and operate the Harper Group.”
“Ah,” Mira said. “A multigenerational family company. Highly successful. They make the chips Dennis is so fond of and the organic dish soap we use. As well as scores of other things found in most households. Their family foundation does good work.”
“He doesn’t. He lives on a two-hundred-mil-a-year trust fund, inherited money, and a bogus consultant fee, lives free in one of the companyproperties, drives—I’m damn sure—vehicles owned by the company. He has—what do you call it?—carte blanche with the company card, and has made considerable use of it in his plans to kill.
“He has two older sisters. One a U.S. senator, the other the head of one of Harper’s many arms. He is seven years younger than his second sister.”
Mira sat, crossed her legs.
