“I’m no cop, but I’ll have one with you. We’ve still some of Will Bannon’s brew. That’s definitely cop beer. How would that do you?”
“Down to the ground, thanks.”
Already the headache receded to an annoyed murmur. The rocks in her neck and shoulders had broken down into irritating pebbles.
The man had a way.
So when he walked back with the beer, sat, she curled into him, wrapped around him.
“Here now,” he soothed.
“It’s nothing wrong. It’s just . . . good to be home, and here. I can take the long, crap days, the multiple DBs in the long, crap days. I can even take feeling like I’m getting basically nowhere after the long, crap days because it’s good to be home, and here.”
She tipped her head back, kissed him, then shifted back to sit hip to hip. Took a swig from the pilsner he’d poured. “Beer’s good, too.”
“It is. And I’ll wager you’ve gotten beyond nowhere.”
“It doesn’t feel like it. And less like it after each notification. Three today seeing as Baxter notified Denby’s wife.”
“How is she?”
“Holding steady. They didn’t fuck her up as much as they did the first one. Broken nose, couple broken fingers. They mostly kept the pounding to her face, especially after she told them she was pregnant. They didn’t spend as much time on the Denbys. It may be Denby broke sooner than Rogan, or it may be they wanted to hit the loading in instead of the actual opening.”
“You lean toward the first,” Roarke commented.
“Yeah, not only because I think Denby broke sooner, but because they found out they had a pregnant woman on their hands. I think they moved up the timetable. They still accomplished what they wanted, but it meant adjustments, and a daylight B and E.”
She drank again. “I’m skipping around.”
She walked it back to the home invasion, moved through the destruction of Richie’s paintings in his studio.
“We’re still checking on rentals of black panel vans, but so far they’re all legit. Maybe they own one, or have access to one, or just boosted one for a couple hours and nobody noticed.”
“Will you have your witness at the loft work with Yancy or another police artist?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think we’ll get anything there. She couldn’t even give us skin color, height, nothing. She’s three floors up, not paying any attention. We’re lucky we got anything. Sweeper’s report lists twenty-two canvases destroyed from the loft—fifteen completed, the other seven partials. And nobody but dead Angelo knows how many more were completed, how many they took with them.”
“If that was always the plan, they may not have had a stash of his paintings ahead of the game.”
“Yeah, that’s another bitch. Still, you know people in the art-collecting world, and people who know people.”
“I’ll poke around there. I can tell you that there will be an immediate boost on the value. As soon as the details and circumstances of his death, and the loss of much of his work, gets out? Well, there are certain collectors who’ll pay considerably more due to those circumstances. Particularly.”
“Maybe you know some of those sick bastards?”
“I may know a few, and of more. If this is the plan—and it follows, doesn’t it—they’d have to know at least one.”
“Yeah. They have a connection. Business world/stock market, art collecting. Gambling. I can’t figure what’s next. They had to have at least one contingency plan, one alternate mark if neither of these worked out. And since they both worked, why not go ahead with the contingency?”
“Some quit while ahead,” he reminded her, but she shook her head.
“Not these two. And it’ll be quick, that’s pattern, too. Bang, bang, bang. How much did you pay for the painting you’ve got?”
“Happily I looked that up as I thought you might ask. Fifty thousand euros. It’s insured now for a hundred twenty-five USD. He was moving up.”
“How much do you figure it’s worth now to one of those sick bastard types?”
Roarke took a considering sip of beer as he calculated. “I expect I could sell it through standard means tomorrow—after the media play—for a quarter million. Through less standard means, if I waited a few days more? As it’s learned just how many of his originals exist? Half a million.”
“A hell of a return quick and fast, right? And if you have multiples, some or likely most of which you stole—so no outlay—potentially millions.”
“Smart money would wait a few years, let the legend ripen—and as he had exceptional talent, died young and tragically, it will. Then you’d turn a painting like ours for several million.”
“They won’t wait. Maybe—maybe—they’ll hold on to one or two because they like to gamble. But it’s quick profit first. The quick score. They’ve had feelers out, or they’re putting them out now.
“Sell the stocks, sell the painting,” she mused, “take the cash. Pure profit. That’s where we have to focus. It’s the greed that’ll get them. That’s the focus until I can figure out their next target.”
“The problem with tracking the stocks is the use of side sales, day-trading, numbered accounts, working it offshore and off-planet. And selling off in smallish, strategic bits rather than large lumps. The large lumps are fairly easy to track back to their sources—even considering all the above. And I’ve found those.”
“Why haven’t I heard that before this?” Eve demanded.
“Because they’re going to lead you nowhere. Like your rental vans, they’ve proven legitimate, and nothing that crosses your investigation. Still, I have them for you. You’ve been a bit busy today.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. I mean it.”
“And what is it besides fatigue and frustration weighing down on you?”
“Eighteen dead’s a lot of weight.”
“What else?”
She drew a breath. “I told Peabody Nadine could take her to the Oscar thing. And McNab. How you and Leonardo are handling the wardrobe part of it. So she—Jesus.”
After staring into her glass, she put the half glass of beer aside, pushed up. “She didn’t say anything at first, then she does the stand-up thing. Can’t leave in the middle of an investigation, so I knocked that back. Then she started blubbering. Just blubbering, and telling me how this is some lifelong fantasy dream deal for her. She’s out of orbit about it, so out of orbit she even shuts up about it so she doesn’t piss me off.”
She hissed, dragged her hands through her hair. “Then, boom.”
“And that changes things.”
“Christ, yes. She already brought it up—job comes first. No whining about it.”
“That’s our Peabody,” he replied.
“I said I wasn’t going to think about it yet—we just keep going. But the job comes first. If we can’t wrap this up, or if they hit again? I can’t cut her loose. I’m not just her friend, she’s not just my partner. I’m the boss. I have to do what I have to do.”
“You do, yes.” He rose. “The job, the dead, the victims all come first. She’d never question that. She’s a good cop, so they all come first for her as well. But—”
“There can’t be any buts on this,” Eve began.
“But,” he repeated, moving to her, laying his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll be your Peabody.”
“It’s not—”
“I’m not a cop,” he interrupted. “But I have certain skills, and in this particular case, certain connections and insights that should be useful. They’re yours while you need them.”
“You’ve got your own work to deal with.”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait. Your job may not come first for me, but you do. And Peabody, Nadine, Mavis? They matter a great deal. Beyond that, the victims matter to me as well. You’d do what needs doing, and you’d carry the weight. You’d carry it longer than Peabody, who’d never blame you or the job. So I’ll be your Peabody.”
Her c
hest burned. “You’d look stupid in that damn magic pink coat of hers.”
“Well now, I’ve my own, don’t I? So you’ll work with an expert consultant, civilian, for a few days if needs must, and the woman who matters to both of us can fulfill that lifelong fantasy without guilt.”
He took her hands. “And I’ll enjoy hunting down a pair of murderous, greedy bastards with my clever cop. There’s a win for me.”
“What about all the planets and their satellites you’re scheduled to buy?”
“Word is they’ll still be there next week. If not? Well, look at the money you’ll have saved me.”
Eve squeezed his hands, hard. “She’ll blubber again.”
“I won’t. And there’s a win for you.”
“Okay.” She moved into him. “But I’m going to work the hell out of the ass she’s obsessed with before she leaves.” Turning, she looked back at her board. “And if we pin their asses, so much the better.”
“Tell her that,” he suggested. “Send her a memo, take the weight off altogether. You’ll both work clearer.”
“I guess we would. I’ll do that, then I’ve got to write a couple reports, update my board.”
“I believe I’ll renew acquaintance with a few sick bastards I know in the art world. And since you’ve no intention of finishing your cop beer as you’ll go for coffee, I’ll take it with me.”
She got the coffee, composed the memo.
From: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve
To: Peabody, Detective, Delia
Re: Official Leave
This confirms the leave previously discussed and approved. You are granted official leave of seventy-two hours, commencing Friday at sixteen hundred hours. I will work with my expert consultant, civilian, during that period on current investigations, and any other official business that may ensue during said period.
That’s it.
Between this time and the commencement of official leave, be prepared to work your ass off. If I hear any shit about my decision and directive, I will kick whatever is left of your ass.
And done, Eve thought, began outlining reports.
It took twenty minutes for Peabody’s response, during which time, Eve concluded, her partner had struggled with righteous objections, resolved herself, and blubbered.
From: Peabody, Detective Delia
To: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve
Re: Official Leave
Sir. I’m grateful to you for granting this leave, and to the expert consultant, civilian, for making said leave possible during the course of a challenging investigation. If circumstances require this leave to be rescinded, I am prepared to return to duty at any time during the seventy-two hours.
I am fully prepared to work my ass off until it’s as skinny as yours. (I wish.)
Thank you.
She had to smile, then rose to update her board.
She stood back, studying the new faces as Roarke came in.
“I had one faint glimmer,” he began.
“I’ll take faint glimmer.”
“A contact with—we’ll stick with sick bastard for now—indicates he received a query several weeks ago. On the dark web, which the sick bastard frequents.”
“About Richie’s paintings?”
“About a hypothetical. If the artist of a certain painting, worth an estimated amount, were to die a sudden and tragic death with much of his work destroyed in this tragedy, would the sick bastard be interested in bidding on the painting.”
“That’s pretty damn vague. Yet specific.”
“My contact claims he asked for more specifics—after all, if he didn’t know the artist in question or the painting, he couldn’t speculate. However, several others expressed some interest.”
“It’s a sick bastard world.”
“And yet, without sick bastards where would we be? The upshot, for the moment, is the hypothetical refused specifics, instead boasting he’d provide them in the spring. Advising the sick bastards to prepare for bidding.”
“Weeks ago. So they knew about Richie, knew about the plans for the opening, likely had Denby selected as the trigger.” She circled. “That, the showing and all of the hype around it, would have been set. A date, specific.”
“For marketing, and the hyping, to give Richie time to finish work, to select it. Yes. And no, the meeting for the merger wouldn’t have been set weeks ago. It would have been in the works, certainly. But the very definite date and time wouldn’t have been set until closer to that date and time.”
“They ended up having to go back-to-back. Probably wasn’t their first choice, but to cash in on both, they had to go with the one, two. Still stupid.”
When Roarke took the coffee from her hand to drink it himself, she only scowled a little. She figured she owed him.
“You know the smarter, easier, more direct way to blow up the artist and most of his work? You send Denby to his studio, not to the Salon.”
“Hmm. You know, you’re right about that,” Roarke agreed. “Except, of course, they wouldn’t have been able to steal several canvases.”
“That tells me they don’t, or didn’t, have enough scratch to buy up paintings. They had it for the stocks, but not for the paintings. And they could—what you called—do the margin thing on the stocks. They didn’t have a big hunk of money for stocks and paintings, so they had to do it the stupid way.”
“Stupid, but effective,” he pointed out.
“It still tells me they don’t just want money. They need it. Not saying it’s not down to basic greed, but to gamble on these deals, they had a relatively small stake. They had to steal the paintings. And they knew they were going to weeks before the opening. Weeks before the meeting at Quantum was set in stone.”
She frowned back at the board. “It’s not a lot, but it’s more.”
“And you have more here. Your interviews?”
“Low probability on the left. The three higher on the right. I’m not sold on the three. Except this one.” She tapped a face. “He has a brother-in-law who’s retired Army, and a sister—not the one married to Army—who’s an art broker, based in Florence. And when we interviewed him, he came off nervy and evasive. Something shady there.”
“William O’Donnell.” Roarke studied the ID shot, sipped more coffee. Said, “Hmm.”
“What?” Instantly, she swung around, eyes narrowed and focused. “What kind of hmm was that? That was a, you know, some kind of hmm.”
“Obviously, I’ll need to guard my hmms in the future.”
Eve drilled a finger into Roarke’s chest. “You know this guy?”
“I don’t know William O’Donnell, but I knew a Liam Donnelly. Back in Dublin in the bad old days, and here and there a few times since.”
“He’s got fake ID? Son of a bitch.”
Even as she swung again toward her command center, Roarke took her arm. “Hold on a minute.”
“He may be a friend of yours, but—”
“Not a friend so much as a former colleague, we’ll say. He was a decent B and E man. Had some years on me when we both ran in Dublin. We had a few . . . enterprises in common over the years. Where did you find him?”
“As William O’Donnell he’s a mechanical engineer at Econo.”
“Is he now? He always did have a hand for mechanics as I recall. I’d heard he’d retired from those other enterprises. Or for the most part.”
“Decent enough at B and E to get through security at Rogan’s, at Denby’s? A one-eyed moron could get through the security at Richie’s building.”
“He’d have improved considerably to have gotten through my system at the Rogan’s house, but it’s not impossible he did. What is? He’d never be a part of murder. In tormenting women and children. It’s not Liam, not at all.”
“People change.”
“So they do, as you and I illustrate very well. But the core rarely does. It’s not Liam, Eve. He had a mother and three sisters he adored. I’d wager he still does. The only time I ever saw him
use violence was when a . . . compatriot slapped a bar girl. Liam stood, lifted his chair, and slammed it into the idiot’s face. Broke several teeth, as I recall. Then he hauled the man up, ordered him to apologize. No one strikes a woman when Liam Donnelly’s about, he said. He never carried a weapon other than a pocket knife.”
“I need him in the box.”
Roarke sighed. “Give me his contact information to speed it up, and let me speak with him.”
“So he can rabbit before—”
“Bloody hell.”
She saw the flash of hot temper before he turned, paced away. And her own rose to meet it.
“Eighteen dead. Your old pal’s a suspect. I’ll have him in the box.”
“You know, sometimes the fucking cop is a keen pain in the arse.”
“I’m always the fucking cop.”
The flash of heat had cooled, she noted, and gone brutally cold when he turned back to her.
“And that I know very bloody well. Do you think a man I haven’t seen in a fecking decade matters more to me than the eighteen blown to bits? Is that what you think? How do you live with a man such as me?”
“I think old ties can squeeze tight.”
“So tight I’d betray you?”
“Don’t put that on me.” The insult boiled under her skin. “I didn’t say anything about betraying.”
“But that’s what it would be. If you don’t trust me to stand with you for those eighteen, then what the bloody hell are we doing?”
“Back on me,” she said, bitterly.
“And if you put him in the box, a man with a past and false papers, what will happen to him? If he’s innocent of the rest, as I know he is, what will happen? Deportation at best, prison at worst, because you won’t trust me to hold up my end.”
“If he rabbits?”
“He may have already, but it won’t be because he had any part in this. I’ll talk to him, and while I do, you run Liam Donnelly. See if you find anything more than I’ve told you. See if you find a man who’d beat women, frighten children, or drive a father to kill and die.”
“If you’re wrong.”
“I’ll use every resource I have, and I’ve more than he, believe me, to hunt him down and put him in your bleeding box with my own hands.”