Leverage in Death Page 10

  “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.”

  “It does—but you can have all you want.”

  The living area exploited the view with a wall of glass and a wide terrace beyond it. Twilight slid over the city,
all soft light while buildings speared and lanced into the deepening sky. It fell glimmering on the river.

  Jordan gestured to a conversation grouping of sofas and chairs, all in black and white, making Eve think of a chessboard. A long, narrow fireplace ran flickering along a wall. Over it ranged charcoal and pencil studies of nudes—male and female.

  Quiet music gurgled in the background.

  “I have an aperitif,” he said, picking up a glass of pale gold liquid. “It’s coffee, black for you, isn’t it? My droid can see to that.”

  “No, thanks.” Eve sat to put a stop to the pleasantries. “You were in a relationship with Willimina Karson.”

  “Yes. I—that is to say, we ended it several weeks ago. Amicably.”

  He sat as well, comfortable, at ease.

  “You’re aware, are you not, Ms. Karson was seriously injured this morning in a bombing at the headquarters of Quantum Air?”

  His face fell into somber and sorrowful lines—as sketchy, to Eve’s mind, as the charcoals. “I heard this morning. It’s beyond horrible. All those people! An employee of Quantum, an executive? I can’t imagine the mind-set, just can’t. Thank God Willi wasn’t killed, and I’m told is expected to fully recover.”

  “Who told you?”

  “I . . . heard the bulletin. I confess I’ve been glued to the reports throughout the day as I was sick with worry for Willi. The merger’s going through, even after all this, and she’s doing better already. Such a relief! Have you learned why this man, this maniac, did this?”

  “You used some faulty glue if you missed the fact that Paul Rogan was as much a victim as the others who died or were injured this morning. You were aware Quantum and Econo have been in negotiations for several months?”

  “Yes. Well aware, yes. Willi has an amazing head for business, and while my strengths run in the art world, she did share some of the ins and outs with me while we were romantically involved.”

  He flashed that smile again, lifted his aperitif in an easy toast. “Much as the Icove book and vid indicate you share some of your work with Roarke.”

  “You knew the particulars?”

  More sober lines replaced the smile as Jordan shifted, leaned in just a little. “It was, and will be, a major shift for Econo, and Willi. She’s not in any way impulsive, and factors in advice, opinions as well as spreadsheets and figures.”

  “She consulted you?” This from Roarke, baiting more than biting with a lifted eyebrow. “On this major deal?”

  Jordan lifted a hand, palm up. “I do come from a business family, after all. A family that negotiates, deals, buys, sells—you certainly understand the scope. Naturally, Willi sought my advice and opinion, as understandably, your wife seeks yours.”

  “And did she follow your advice and opinion?” Eve asked.

  “I believe she weighed them carefully. I certainly encouraged the merger. Econo, in my opinion, can use a kind of polish, and Quantum will provide it. Did you know Pearson?” Jordan turned his attention to Roarke again. “A wonderful man. It’s a tragedy. I’ve sent my condolences to his wife, his daughter, his son. Oddly, Liana, his daughter, reminds me of Willi. Fascinating women, businesswomen with considerable style.”

  “And disposable income,” Roarke said with a cold, cold smile.

  Jordan froze under it.

  “Who else was interested in your advice and opinion on the merger?” Eve demanded.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Who did you talk to about the merger, any details of it, as it was being negotiated and set up?”

  He tried for insulted. “Whatever Willi discussed with me would have been confidential. I would never betray her trust in me.”

  “Bollocks to that,” Roarke said mildly. “You’re a bloody sieve, as I learned myself at your cousin’s wedding when you tried to rope me into investing in some deal you were working—and gave me plenty of confidential details in an attempt to sweeten the pot.”

  “I don’t recall—”

  “I do, and could . . . refresh you if the lieutenant would give us a moment alone.” Roarke leaned forward. “Shall I refresh you?”

  “I didn’t invite you into my home to be threatened and insulted.”

  “I didn’t hear any threat.” Eve settled back. “But we’ll pass—for now—on the refreshing. You’re going to want to think who you talked to, shared details with—trying to score a deal or impress someone.”

  “I listened to and advised Willi out of affection.” He spoke stiffly now. “I have more interesting things to talk about than some business merger. As I said, my interests are in the arts. Now, if that’s all, I have an engagement this evening.”

  “You’re going to want to think,” Eve repeated. “Because if Roarke says you’re a sieve, you’re just that. Twelve people are dead. The woman you were romantically involved with is in the hospital. I’m willing to bet when I check—and I will—you didn’t contact the hospital to inquire on the status of a woman you parted ways with—amicably—only weeks ago.”

  That brought on the faintest flush. Embarrassment, maybe, Eve thought. Anger more likely.

  “You’re going to want to think who you talked to about the merger, who may have pumped you for details. You’re going to think carefully about someone with an interest in the stock market, someone who likes to gamble, someone who may have a military background.”

  Banks set his glass aside. “I know a great many people, and many of those have interests in the stock market, many enjoy gambling—”

  “Do you?”

  He broke off, picked his drink up again. “I have financial advisers who worry about such matters. Art, as I said, is my field.”

  “But the CEO of Econo consulted you regarding a major decision?”

  “Pillow talk.” He brushed it away. “And a woman’s natural inclination to consult a man with some experience. Frankly, I had no real interest in Willi’s business, and certainly didn’t dine out on the details of it. In any case, we haven’t been involved for weeks. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.”

  Eve rose. “You’re going to want to think,” she said again. “Because if my investigation links you to the men who instigated the bombing, I’ll find a way to tie you as an accessory. You wouldn’t like it.”

  His color rose deep this time, smearing away the charm. “That’s ridiculous. I’ve never harmed anyone in my life! I insist you leave or I’ll be forced to call security.”

  Now Roarke rose. “It’s my building, you arse, and my security. You’d be wise to heed the lieutenant’s warning. Oh, and here’s another, Liana won’t give a wanker like you the time of day. Done?” he asked Eve.

  “For now. Think,” she repeated before she walked to the door with Roarke. She glanced back to see Jordan’s face, a mask of shaky rage.

  Perfect.

  “That was a good scary Roarke,” she commented on the way to the elevator.

  “I’ll add, you did a good scary cop as well.” He took her hand, kissed her fingers. “Teamwork.”

  “He’ll think. He won’t be able to stop thinking. Maybe it’ll lead somewhere, because he damn well talked plenty about the merger. Puffing himself up with inside intel. It’s all the fuck over him.”

  She took a deep breath, rolled her shoulders. “Let’s go home, eat, keep up the teamwork. You can start the last part by finding out who the wanker’s financial advisers are—and maybe how much he’s invested in Quantum and/or Econo.”

  “Delighted.”

  She let Roarke drive so she could send a quick roundup of the interview to her team.

  “I don’t get why Karson, who comes off smart and steady would hook up with a useless user like Banks. Sure, he looks good, but if that’s a thing, just bang and move on.”

  “The heart wants what it wants, sees what it needs to see.”

  “The heart’s just a pulsing muscle without the head.” She angled to study him. “You look good.” Major understatement, she thought. “And that’s a th
ing. I might’ve banged you if you’d been a useless user, but I’d have moved on.”

  “I believe I was still on your murder board as a suspect when we first banged each other.”

  “Technically,” she allowed. “But I didn’t figure you for it. If I’d been wrong, I’d have taken you down, slick. Maybe I’d have banged you one last time first, but I’d’ve taken you down.”

  “Darling, that’s so sweet—and oddly arousing.”

  “The point is she strikes as too smart and centered to fall for his bullshit.”

  “He knows how to charm—and lays it on when he has a goal. He has intellect and can talk a good game.” Roarke shrugged. “He’s, at the core, a grifter with some skill. The smart and steady can fall for a well-oiled grift, especially those who play to the heart. One thinks: Oh, but it’s different with me, or I can change him.”

  She frowned as they drove through the gates, and home rose up into the deepening sky with all its wonders and welcomes.

  “I was going to say polka dots don’t change their spots, but sometimes they can. They do. You’re married to a cop, and I’m living in an urban castle.”

  He stopped the car, leaned over to kiss her. “Polka dots are spots.”

  “Until they get smeared and blend together. Then they’re splotches.”

  “That’s both true and confusing,” he decided. “So we’ve smeared our spots into splotches for each other.”

  “Right, but Banks? His type’s always going to be a polka dot.”

  “I’m not completely sure how, but I’m forced to agree. And I suspect Willimina came to the same conclusion, and ended the relationship.”

  “But not before she talked to him about the merger, about the negotiations. Not before he . . . leveraged that to sound important, or even more. It just fits.”

  They got out of the car, circled around to the door together.

  “You do know it’s leopards that don’t change their spots, not polka dots?”

  “A leopard’s born, lives, and dies a leopard, so that’s that.”