by J. D. Robb
She picked up her coffee. “What have you got?”
“Jordan Banks is quite the scamp.”
“Scamp.”
“His art gallery is a colossal failure from which he draws a tidy salary for doing nothing much at all. He pays the staff a pathetic wage, offsetting that, from what I can, see by allowing them to display their own art. If said art manages to sell, the gallery takes seventy percent. He also rents the space for private parties.
“A colossal failure,” Roarke repeated. “On paper. But I’d deem it a reasonable success as a vehicle for laundering money. You’ll want to pass on what I sent you from my little exploration to whoever handles that sort of thing at the NYPSD.”
“Whose money is he laundering?”
“I can’t tell you unless you give me the go on crossing certain lines. But I can guess much of it comes from those high-stake games. He enjoys them occasionally. Nothing out of the ordinary, but he does have connections there.”
“I knew it.”
“Some might come from art. However poorly he manages his own gallery, he does have connections and contacts in the art world. Cash sales aren’t unheard of, and cash is easily washed. Still more may come from other areas, but washing cash he is. And even with that, he’s a complete git.”
Eve shook her head. “It bothers you more that he’s a git than that he’s a criminal.”
“Well, of course. He’s a git, and money slides through his fingers. He has a couple of accounts reasonably well cloaked. A few million here, a few more there. He pays no rent for the gallery as his family owns the building, but he lists rent on his expenses, and merely juggles it from one pocket to the other.
“I want a biscuit,” he said, pushing up to go into the kitchen.
“I don’t have any biscuits in there. What about investments?”
“He’s with Buckley and Schultz,” Roarke said from the kitchen. “It appears Buckley himself handled his portfolio until about eight years ago, when he passed it down the chain. Banks doesn’t have enough personal wealth for Buckley to handle personally.”
He came back in with a plate holding two big cookies chunky with chips.
“Those aren’t biscuits. Those are cookies.”
“I don’t suppose you want one then.”
“Give me a damn biscuit.”
She took one, bit in. “Warm. Good.”
“They are. Now Banks’s portfolio is managed by Schultz’s grandson, and competently enough, who appears aboveboard. Though my impression is he’s passed it to another in the firm. But to confirm that, I’d cross the line you cling to.
“Just keep going.”
“All right. Our boy bought a small chunk of Quantum stock in November, fifty thousand, in the margin. He put in an order to sell this morning, just after the bombing.”
“Panicked.”
“He did—but perhaps just tiptoeing along that line—I stumbled over some correspondence. His broker advised him, strongly, to hold on to the stock, by rightfully telling him he had little more to lose, and ascertaining the stock would level at least.”
“Did he listen?”
“In his way. His response? Fuck it, Tad. Whatever. My take is he bores very easily. But his initial reaction leads me to believe he wasn’t in on the scheme.”
“Maybe not. Maybe Tad was. Maybe he didn’t know he was in on the scheme. Maybe being a scamp, a wanker, and a git, he was also a dupe. Whatever else, he’s dirty. Money laundering’s frowned upon.”
“A pity, as it comes out so crisp and clean.” He polished off the cookie. “Willimina Karson paid his gallery thirty thousand and change—for art. Econo paid his gallery nearly a hundred thousand.”
“Interesting. And he’d get seventy percent of that. I’m going to talk to her in the morning, push out what I can about what she told Banks on the deal. I’ll go another round with him, and interview the two I culled out. Both of them would have had some access to Rogan, have means to study him.”
She pushed up, walked to the board. “You’d have to have inside info. Sure, there’s buzz about the merger, but they kept the lid on the details until they had it set. And this scheme took weeks, if not months, to refine. So they had to know more than the average onlooker, even money people. Speculation, sure, but enough to plot this out means solid data.”
She turned back. “Am I wrong?”
“If you knew what to ask, how to ask, who to ask, you could find out more. Then there’s the politics and bureaucrats. So you’d have information there, as the deal rolled through the red tape. You’d have some leaks.”
“So some assistant to some assistant with the right clearance could brag to his buddies over a brew about drone work on a big deal.”
“Possibly.”
“Yeah, I figured.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes. “Okay. It’s a heist.” She dropped her hands again. “You know about heists, and you know about money, about business, about deals. You know how to cheat and steal.”
Thoughtfully, Roarke eased a hip onto her desk. “I’m taking all of that as a compliment.”
“It’s a heist,” she repeated, “but at the base it’s a con. You know about those, too. It’s not what you did, using innocent people, killing them, but you know how to set up heists, grifts, cons, thefts.”
“Still taking the compliment.”
“How would you do it? If you were a sociopath, didn’t care about leaving a trail of bodies. How would you set this up? How long would it take? How much would you need?”
He blew out a breath. “Well now, let’s sit by the fire.”
“I want—”
“A brandy’s what I want,” he decided, and strolled over to get one. “And we might as well be comfortable while I’m planning out a job without worrying about the death toll.” He grabbed her hand as he walked, tugged her over to the sofa.
The cat slid off the sleep chair, bounded over and up to stretch out across both their laps.
“Cozy,” Roarke decided. “The start could be from a variety of points—and there’s where you’ll have your issues. You might be inside one of the companies, or know someone who is. You might catch the word in the media, or on the street. You might be in finance, or again, the politics of it. But from there you have to know enough to have vision.”
“Crash the companies at the optimum time, buy, wait, sell.”
“In shorthand, yes. And if you’re that sociopath, you’d think the optimum way at that optimum time to bring about that crash is blood and fear.”
“Explosion, loss of life, confusion. Nobody knows what the fuck for the first couple of hours.”
“Exactly. The world being what the world is, people rush toward terrorism at such moments, foreign or domestic. The market reacts. So if this is my plan, I’d want times, dates, names. I’d want the companies to rebound or it’s not profitable, is it?”
He sipped brandy, calculated. “I don’t have to know, absolutely, the Monday meeting is the big marketing reveal and the finalizing of the merger.”
“I can’t buy that. It’s no coincidence.”
“Not at all,” he agreed. “But I only have to know there’s a major meeting. I already know about the merger, already know it’s about to cross the finish line. But I need a time and place. I could make friends with an assistant or junior exec from either company,” he supposed. “Meet them in a bar, a gym, strike up a conversation. Run into them a few times, have a drink, talk shop.”
“Loose chatter. Bragging or complaining.”
“Often both. All this person has to tell me is there’s a big meeting on this particular date, and I can take it from there. Or I nudge for a little more, just conversation, just a couple of people blowing off steam after work.
“If I knew enough,” he continued, “I’d know Pearson’s heirs are safely away, as are Karson’s. Only some of the BODs from each company were to be at that nine o’clock. This is a presentation, a formal introduction. The official signing will come after. So you
’d need the names of who’d be at the presentation, as that’s your optimum.
“Hit later, you take out too many of the bigwigs.”
“Both the biggest wigs were there,” Eve pointed out.
“From my standpoint? You’re not worried about cutting off the head of both companies, as they have more limbs to pick up the pieces. But too much damage, that dive will hold longer, and recovery might not come for weeks, if then.”
She nodded. “The explosion was bad, but it was contained. One room, and the people in it. And those on the other side of the room—for the most part cuts and burns, broken bones but nothing really life threatening.”
“The smallest impact for the biggest, if you follow. As I’m going to kill Rogan anyway, I might make contact with him. Friendly or businesslike. We jog in the park, frequent the same deli. Nothing that connects me to him particularly. Or, if not that close, the wife, the daughter, the assistant, a coworker.”
He sipped more brandy. “If it’s me, I’d cultivate more than one source. Casual—that afterwork bar, a steam at the gym, a flirtation at a club. Bits and pieces add up if you know how to work it. When I have enough, I study Paul Rogan and his family.”
“Rogan’s the key,” she agreed. “If you’re with Econo, why don’t you pick somebody from Econo? Too close? Still, you have to know Rogan. You have to be sure of him, or gambling sure. Who’s your partner?”
“Ah well, that’s a tricky one, isn’t it?” Roarke studied the brandy he swirled. “I preferred to work alone, but you can’t always pull a job on your own. You’d best be damn sure of any along with you. And this one’s bloody, so all the more sure. If it’s my job, my plan, I select someone who brings a skill to the table I need or want, and I know them. Personally and well. If I’m tapped for someone else’s plan, the same applies.”
“Did you ever work with explosives?”
“Hmm.” He sipped some brandy. “I preferred finesse, but when finesse isn’t an option . . .”
“Did you build them yourself?”
He toed off his shoes, put his feet on the coffee table, and settled into the interrogation. “It’s wise to learn all aspects of a particular vocation, don’t you think, Lieutenant? Blasting holes in things always seemed . . . crude, but there were times for crude, and needs must. For a big hole now, I value my skin as much as any shiny object I might have coveted, so there’s where a partner or an expert might come to play. Still, what you’re dealing with here’s a different thing. A bomb’s a bomb in its results, but it comes in forms. And the building of a wearable one, that I’ve never done or had part in. It would take some study.”
“I’ve got Salazar for that. It’s the broad strokes I’m after from you. And I’ve got a picture. The inside information’s vital. You can’t go forward without it. Inside information and the viable mark in Rogan, knowledge of the market, and the means to play it. Add to that the explosives—and most thieves, most market guys don’t just have that at their fingertips—and you get a picture.”
She frowned over at the board. “Okay.”
Roarke hefted the cat, dumped him on the other side of the sofa, shifted and nudged Eve back and under him, all as smooth as a dance.
She said, “Hey. I’m working.”
“You’re circling,” he corrected. “And my consultant fee’s due.”
“Put in the chit.”
He grinned. “I intend to.”
It made her laugh even as his mouth came down to hers with a quick nip of teeth. So she gave in to the moment, the mood, wrapped arms and legs around him.
“How fast can you get it done?”
He slid a hand up her side, down again. “Are you after fast or effective?”
“I know you, ace.” She arched up against him. “You can handle both.”
“A challenge then?”
She arched again, heat to heat. “You’re up for it.”
He laughed as well even as he captured her mouth again.
Quick, quick, and oh yes, efficient, those hands skimming, those clever fingers tugging and pressing. A thief’s steady hands, a pickpocket’s nimble fingers, they stole her breath. And had her disarmed, naked to the waist before she caught it again.
“So far, so good,” she managed.
Then lost her breath again as his mouth ravished her breast. With her heart hammering under the assault, she fought her way under his shirt to flesh.
The fire smoldered, rolled out heat and light. The cat, displaced and annoyed, plopped off the couch, stalked out of the room.
Roarke moved over her, savoring those long lines, subtle curves. He could make her tremble, always a thrill. And she could make him ache. Every gasp, every sigh he drew from her beat in his blood, tribal drums. Her hands, long and narrow like the rest of her, rushed over him, reached for him, unleashed him.
He drove into her, buried himself, filled her.
They held, breath ragged, eyes locked.
Her hands lifted to his face—one tender beat—then her fingers shot back into his hair, gripped, dragged his mouth back to hers for the hunger, mad and avid.
Then the movement, the hard and fast taking each of each, eclipsed all. The madness of need overtook with her arms chained around him, her hips flashing beat for beat.
When she cried out, flung herself off that whippy edge, he held on, held on, then fell with her.
9
Eve woke in the gray limbo before dawn, alone, naked, and to the alarm of her communicator beeping.
She fumbled for it.
“Block video. Dallas.”
Dispatch, Dallas, Lieutenant Eve. Report to officer, Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir, Eighty-Sixth Street. Possible homicide. Victim identified as Banks, Jordan.
“Crap,” she breathed it out. “Acknowledged. Contact Peabody, Detective Delia. Dallas out.”
She rolled over. “Lights on, twenty percent.” Headed for the shower.
“Who did you talk to, you asshole? Who did you talk to?” she muttered while the hot pulse of jets pounded her. She jumped out of the shower and into the drying tube. Closed her eyes while warm air swirled.
Jumped out, grabbed a robe, and strode into the bedroom just as Roarke came in the door with the cat at his heels.
“You’re up early,” he commented.
“Banks is dead.”
“Ah, well. I’ll get the coffee.”
Grateful, she dived into her closet. “What the hell was he doing in Central Park?” She grabbed black pants, a shirt, a jacket. “What was he doing at the JKO?”
“The reservoir?”
“All I know until I get there. Except this is damn well connected. No way in hell this bomb goes off yesterday, I talk to him, and he’s dead by morning.”
She came out in the shirt—white—the pants—black—tossed a black jacket on the sofa in the sitting area, and grabbed the coffee Roarke held out to her.
“Thanks.”
“Should I go with you?” he asked as he wandered into her closet.
“No need.” She grabbed her pocket debris from the dresser as he walked out with a pale gray V-neck sweater and a pair of black knee boots with gray laces. “Come on.”
“Not so much for fashion—though they work—but for practicality. The temperature dropped overnight, and it’s sleeting, with some wind along with it.”
“Will winter never end?” She took the sweater, tugged it on, sat to pull on the boots.
Already dressed for the business day in one of his perfect suits, Roarke walked back to the AutoChef.
“I don’t have time for breakfast,” she said, rising to strap on her weapon harness.
“For this you do.” He handed her a fat, toasted bread pocket.
“What is it?”
He smiled. “Quick and effective.”
That got a smirk before she bit in. Eggs, creamy, bits of crispy bacon—and something sneaky like spinach.
“Tag me, will you, when you know something? After all, I talked with him as
well.”
“Sure.” She downed the pocket, the rest of the coffee. After scooping a hand through her hair, she pulled on the jacket.
And Roarke pulled her to him, kissed her. “Take care of my cop.”
“Got it.” She bent to give the cat a quick scratch before heading to the door. Stopped. “Waffles or oatmeal?”
“Sorry?”
“When I’m not here is it waffles or oatmeal?”
“I like oatmeal.”
She could only shake her head as she jogged downstairs, bundled in the damn winter gear, and headed out to meet death.
Sleet blew, wet and unpleasant, splattering her windshield. The sun had yet to make an appearance so the wet white streaks streamed in the nasty March wind as her headlights beamed. The streets gleamed black.
She passed a single maxibus, lumbering alone with its load of sleepy passengers fresh off the graveyard shift. She swung onto Eighty-Sixth until she pulled up behind a black-and-white.
A uniform started toward her, nodding when she held up her badge.
“What do you have?”
“Well, we got a couple of college types in the back. They were out for a drunken stroll, saw the floater. The pair of them climbed over the fence, jumped in to pull him out. Beat droids called us in. We got them in the back keeping warm.”
“I’ll take them first.”
Eve opened the door of the cruiser, took a look at the two men—maybe twenty—shivering under heat blankets.
She crouched down. “Lieutenant Dallas. Let’s hear it.”
“Man, Jesus, we were just taking a walk, right?”
“Right.”
He had smooth cocoa-colored skin, a little gray under it, and wide, wide brown eyes. She could smell the nerves, the water, and the cheap brew pumping off him.
“Your name?”
“Marshall. Marshall Whitier. We pulled like an all-nighter, and were walking it off, and messing around. Maybe jog around the JKO, right? And we saw the dude. So Richie says, Holy shit, and I’m like, What the fuck, and we climbed over and jumped in the water.”