“Anybody think differently?”
“There were a few doubters, some dissents, but as the deal took shape, that faded off. I don’t understand any of this. I don’t know anyone who would have done this. And anyone, absolutely anyone who works for, who knows Willi, would know she’d push through it. No way she’d let the deal fall apart.
“I don’t like leaving her alone for too long.”
“Just another minute. As her admin, you’d see her correspondence, set up her appointments. Did anything strike you as threatening, even subtly?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“On a personal level? Someone who might want to harm her?”
“She has an ex, a jerk, but there’s no way. Honestly, just no way. They’re not friendly, but I’d know if he’d ever been violent. He’s more of an opportunistic asshole.”
“Name.”
“Crap, crap. Okay. Jordan Banks. Trust-fund type, swanks around, pretends to work in the art world, but mostly swanks.”
“Don’t like him much?”
“At all, but he wouldn’t do this.”
“How about you—do you have a more personal relationship with Ms. Karson?”
“Sure I—Oh, it’s not like that. I mean to say, I love her—but not like that. I have a girl, a sort of fiancée. Well, I haven’t asked her yet, but I’m going to. Going through this wakes you up. But I love Willi—just not romantically. That would be . . . just off. I work for her, and she’s, well, older.”
Eve saw Peabody go back into Karson’s room with a go-cup, wound things up.
“If you think of anything else—”
“I hope I do. My brain feels upside down right now, so I hope I do. My best friend, Lieutenant, blown apart right in front of me. We went to the Knick’s game last night, and now he’s . . . I can’t get it out of my head.”
Eve let him go, joined up with Peabody.
“It sure seemed like righteously pissed to me,” Peabody commented.
“Yeah, it rings, for both of them. She has an ex. Jordan Banks. The admin doesn’t like him—doesn’t see him in this, but doesn’t like him. Let’s run him. And we’ll see if the guard nurse can give us more names and locations in this place for the other injured.”
“She stopped scowling when I asked for coffee or tea for Karson. It was herbal tea, but she stopped scowling.”
“Then you take point,” Eve said.
7
They made the rounds at the hospital, but pulled no new information.
“We’ll need statements from the rest of the wits, injured and not,” Eve said as they started back down to their vehicle. “But it’s unlikely any break’s going to come from there.”
“I can’t see anybody in that room being complicit, at least not knowingly.”
“We work on unknowingly. Connections, however negligible, to someone who fits the profile. A little careless chatter might have sparked something.”
“People brag,” Peabody agreed. “Wow, we got a big deal in the works. Or they complain. I’m whipped with all this extra work.”
“Or a spouse or lover complains to a friend because of the overtime. Add in companies of this size, some are bound to be terminated—or opt to leave. We look there. And since there’s no indicator Rogan had a sidepiece for sexing out info, we’ll take a look at Karson’s ex.”
As they got in the car, Peabody pulled up the data she’d already run on her PPC.
“Jordan Lionel Banks, age forty-six, Caucasian, one marriage at age thirty-three, one divorce at age thirty-four.”
“Hardly really counts,” Eve commented.
“Ten months from ‘I do’ to ‘Get out.’ No offspring. Ex-wife, Letitia Alison Argyle, an heiress to the Argyle Communications empire, based primarily in Great Britain. Remarried, three years in. She’s thirty-five, so some younger than Banks. Currently expecting her second child. Anyway.”
She scrolled down a bit. “Banks is fourth generation moolah. One of the Banks Information and Entertainment titans. BI&E does media, vids, home screen, digital, live theater. Just as an aside, fyi, The Icove Agenda is up against their blockbuster, Five Secrets, for best picture.”
Eve only grunted.
“Jordan Banks has residences here in New York—Upper West—and a beach place in the Hamptons. His ex-wife bought him out of their place in London when they split. He also owns a yacht, often spends part of his summer on the Med. Nice work if you can get it.”
“What work?”
“Exactly,” Peabody said. “He owns an art gallery—called the Banks Gallery—again, Upper West. His official data says he’s worth one-point-two billion. But.”
“What’s the but?” Eve aske as she headed back to Central.
“The gossip pages tell a different story. Like, his ex-wife paid him handsomely to shake him loose. He rents out the beach house, and the art gallery’s barely hanging on as Banks ran it into the red. He, like, flits. Party to party, woman to woman—usually looking for a profit angle. Unlike his two siblings, his cousins, and the older generations, he doesn’t actually put any real time into the family business, and gets away with that, drawing an income from same, as he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”
“Gossip-wise, they pay him to keep him out of their hair,” Eve concluded.
“That’s my read,” Peabody confirmed. “He’s probably got less than half of what he puts on his official data, which is still a lot of the moolah. But his lifestyle and personal habits require more, I guess.”
“I’ll pay him a visit before I go home. Take Roarke with me,” Eve decided. “He’s good for intimidating phony rich bastards.”
She pulled into the garage, checked the time. “Okay, you can take your share home, wait it out for McNab, whichever works. I’m going to write this up, grab Roarke, and take a swing at Banks.”
“I’ll write it up,” Peabody offered. “You can probably grab Roarke quicker than I can McNab.”
“Fine. Anything fresh, tag me. I’m with Banks, then working from home.”
Eve sat where she was when Peabody left, sent Roarke a text.
In the garage if you’re done.
Under a minute later: I can be. Ten minutes.
She sat, started to review her notes, then sighed. She had ten minutes to wait. She might as well get it over with. She contacted Nadine, who’d tried to contact her a half dozen times during the day.
“At last!” Nadine’s camera-ready face filled Eve’s dash screen. “I need a one-on-one about this morning’s bombing.”
“Not going to happen. I’m in the middle of it.”
“I can be fast,” the dogged on-air reporter pressed.
“Not fast enough. I’m heading back into the field. I can confirm the NYPSD investigation considers Paul Rogan a victim.”
“Will you confirm or deny terrorism?”
“Paul Rogan was not a terrorist or affiliated with any terrorist organization. I can confirm that he and his family were tortured and held against their will by two unidentified subjects for many hours, and the NYPSD is actively investigating.”
“How was he targeted? What were their demands? How—”
“I’m not going to give you any more at this time, Nadine. It’s a touchy business. I’ve got something unrelated to ask you.”
Nadine’s cat-green eyes sharpened. “So, you get to ask me, but—”
“Yeah, I get to ask you if—and it’s if—I can spring Peabody and McNab for this Hollywood thing, can you fix it for them to go?”
“Absolutely. It’s already fixed. And you and Roarke—”
“Not going to do it, but if I can cut Peabody some time, and Feeney can cut McNab the same, I will and he will.”
“I’ve already got the transpo, and they’re welcome. I have a suite with room for them, so they’re welcome there. They have seats reserved in my section for the awards. They just need the duds.”
“Solid. When do I have to let you know?”
“I’m leaving Friday, I hope by early afternoon.”
“Then I’ll get back to you on it.”
“I wish you’d come. Win or lose, it’s a moment.”
“I’ll watch on-screen. So . . . The Red Horse book. It’s good.”
Eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “You finished it?”