“Nearly, and it’s good. It’s—hell, what do I know—it’s maybe even better than the Icove book.”
Now Nadine’s clever eyes closed a moment. “I wanted it to be. It matters what you think.”
“It shouldn’t, but since it does, good work and all that.”
“It matters,” Nadine repeated. “And since we’re on it, the director and the cast have signed on for the vid. Well, they’re casting another Peabody, because, you know, dead actor—but everybody else is on board. They’re already asking for a third—to make it a kind of trilogy. I’m trying to decide which case to spring from.”
“Don’t ask me. And don’t say anything to Peabody about maybe going out to this Oscar deal. She’ll nag the crap out of me with silence and puppy eyes.”
“Not a word.”
“Are you taking the rock star?”
“I’m taking the rock star. It’s going to be a hell of a night if you change your mind.”
“I won’t. Gotta go interview an asshole.”
“How about a name? Assholes make great copy.”
“If he connects, I’ll let you know.”
Eve clicked off, opened the data Peabody had copied to her on Banks, reviewed it until Roarke opened the passenger door.
“Want me to drive while you work?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got enough. How’s it going in EDD?”
“Plenty of data unearthed, nothing that seems to apply at this point. And where are we off to?”
“Karson’s ex. What do you know about Jordan Banks?”
The DLE’s passenger seat adjusted for Roarke’s longer legs. “Other than he’s a wanker?”
“So that’s a confirmation of Karson’s admin’s opinion and Peabody’s famous gossip pages.”
“He’s barely an acquaintance, but I can confirm, yes, a wanker, and a git on top of it. Wealthy family, most of whom seem to do something constructive with their lives and advantages,” he continued as she pulled out of the parking slot. “I had a . . . closer acquaintance with one of his cousins.”
“Uh-uh.”
“A pleasant enough acquaintance with a woman of some intelligence and style, which contrasted sharply with her cousin. I’d judge Jordan has the brains of a bag of wet mice, but he’s sly enough, and has a certain slick charm that he slithers into to convince the unsuspecting to invest or lend or offer him bounties.”
“Did he try that with you?”
“He did once. I happened to run into his cousin—my pleasant acquaintance—in Madrid. I was on business, and she was about to marry a Spaniard. She graciously invited me to the wedding, and I accepted. Jordan was there, naturally enough, and laid it on thick about some scheme or other. I told him to bugger off. It was quite a lovely wedding, as I recall.”
“So no business with him?”
He turned those amazing blue eyes on her. “I rarely do business with wankers.”
“Is he afraid of you?”
“Why would he be?”
She just rolled her eyes as she negotiated traffic uptown. “When you told him to bugger off, did he bugger off or keep slithering?”
Roarke smiled a little. “I believe he buggered off right quick.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. So you’ll put on the coldly polite Roarke, which is scary enough, and if I need more, you can pull out the full scary Roarke. I don’t know if he’s got any connection to this, but since he was involved with Karson, he may know something about something.”
“Happy to oblige.” He shifted to look at her more fully. “You’ve had a long one, Lieutenant.”
“Not so long. It’s just . . . lots of DBs, a terrorized family, and all—it looks like—to profit off a stock-market gamble. It’s such a stupid, self-serving scheme that it ends up being damn smart. Sure, they made mistakes. Leaving two wits alive, talking in front of the kid when they should’ve zipped it. But they selected just the right type in Paul Rogan. What would you do to save two people you love more than yourself, more than anything?”
Roarke laid a hand over hers. “Absolutely anything.”
“You wouldn’t have pushed the button.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
She shook her head. “You’d—we’d—have found a way out. It takes being smarter, meaner, more crafty. He may have been smarter—under other circumstances—but he didn’t have the mean or the crafty, and that’s how they got him to do it.”
“You wonder if they’ll do it again.”
“Maybe it was a one-off. Maybe.”
“You don’t think so.”
“No, but if so, they’ll take their winnings and fucking celebrate. But even if, they’ll want to do it again down the road. It worked. They won. And if it wasn’t a one-off, they’re planners. Detail men. They’ll already have another target, another scheme.”
“I’ve thought the same, and so, I can tell you, does Feeney. Still, mergers of this magnitude don’t happen every day—or every year.”
“So you’ll help me figure out other ways they might manipulate the market.”
She pulled to the curb in front of a tower of silver and glass rising sleek as a sword into the evening sky.
“I’ll deal with the doorman,” Eve said, jumping out to confront the man in classic black livery. Before she could speak, he smiled.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant? Sir,” he added as Roarke stepped out.
Eve shifted modes. “Jordan Banks.”
“Of course. Mr. Banks should be in. He arrived only twenty minutes ago.”
He moved briskly to the wide glass doors which swept open to a deep lobby done in blacks and silvers, splashed with classy arrangements of red flowers. The air, fragrant with them, carried the hush of a church as they moved over the black tiles to the security desk.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke for Jordan Banks,” the doorman told the man at the long counter.
“Of course. Sir,” he said, turning his gaze to Roarke, “should I call up to announce you?”
“No,” Eve said, definitely.
“Fifty-first floor. Number 5100 for the main entrance.” He pushed a button that had one of the silver elevator doors sliding silently open. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you.” Roarke touched a hand to Eve’s arm as they walked into the elevator.
“Your building.”
“It is, yes.”
“So you don’t do business with wankers, but you rent to them?”
“I imagine I rent to scores of wankers, as even they need a roof over their heads.”
She looked up at the silver ceiling. “Some roof.”
“It’s rather nice, isn’t it?” He leaned in, and though she sent a narrowed eye toward the security cam, kissed her. “There’s an equally nice restaurant just next door, as I recall, if you’re hungry.”
“Home’s better for that.”
“It tends to be.”
They rode up, smoothly, silently, to fifty-one.
A wide corridor, more splashes of red flowers, bursts of art against silver walls, and the double doors of 5100.
“Good security,” Eve commented, noting the door cam, the palm plate, locks. She pressed the buzzer, then stepped out of view so the camera would pick up only Roarke.
As she expected, the door opened without Banks or the security comp inquiring.
“Well, this is a surprise.” He glanced at Eve as she shifted. “And hello.”
She supposed that was the slick charm—the slow smile, the deepening of puppy-brown eyes in a boyishly handsome face. A lot of tousled brown hair with streaks worked in from the sun, or a skilled colorist, framed the face. A sweater of pale gold and dark brown trousers casually covered a trim body.
About six feet, Eve calculated, and the right build according to Cecily Greenspan’s description.
“Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD.”
He barely looked at her badge, kept the puppy eyes on her face in a way she suspected most women would find flattering.
She wasn’t most women.
“Of course, Roarke’s wife. I’ve seen you on-screen. Read quite a bit about you. Please, come in. It’s good to see you, Roarke.”
He extended a hand. Roarke shook it, coolly polite.
“The lieutenant’s here on police business.”
“That sounds ominous.” But Jordan’s smile never dimmed. “Have a seat. I hope ‘business’ doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink.”