Leverage in Death--An Eve Dallas Novel

by J. D. Robb

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

  “That’s rather the point of the adage.”

  “Why need an adage on something that’s just that? It’s a waste of words. If people didn’t have stupid sayings about the obvious, they wouldn’t waste so many words and talk so damn much.”

  She stepped inside the great foyer of her personal urban castle. There, the black-clad Summerset, back from his winter break, loomed with the fat cat at his feet.

  Bony and cadaverous as ever, she thought, but he’d picked up some color in the tropics, and that threw her off. It just threw her off.

  Worse, it made her wonder if the tropical color extended to other areas of that skeletal frame. And the wondering made her fear a brain bleed.

  “Nearly on time,” he said in that snooty voice, “and together.” His brows arched up. “And with no visible injuries.”

  “The day’s young.” Eve pulled off her coat, tossed it over the newel post as the cat padded over to wind through her legs. “You’re not.”

  She sailed upstairs as Roarke lingered to exchange some pleasantries. The cat trotted after her.

  8

  She went straight to her home office to begin setting up her board. By the time Roarke came in, tie and suit coat discarded, she’d made some progress.

  He turned on the fire—a nice touch she often forgot.

  “I’ve a bit of work to see to,” he told her. “We’ll say twenty minutes till dinner?”

  “Thirty’s better.”

  “That’ll do.”

  With Roarke doing what Roarke did in his adjoining office, she finished the board, programmed coffee, created her book.

  Then she put her boots on the desk, sat back with her coffee. Galahad leaped into her lap, and that was fine. She stroked him absently while she drank coffee. And gave herself thinking time.

  No suspects. A gut-hunch that potentially tied a wanker—an excellent word—as a conduit of information or a suspect. An innocent man weaponized and his family shattered. Twelve people dead, two successful companies damaged.

  She closed her eyes.

  Gambling, stock market, profit.

  “Explosives,” she muttered, opening her eyes when she sensed Roarke come into the room. “You use explosives for impact, for creating not just loss of life, destruction of property, but panic.”

  “And so?” He stood a moment, studying her board.

  “There’ve got to be other ways to manipulate the market, less destructive and murderous ways. They weren’t worried about the cops figuring out it wasn’t Rogan—not willingly Rogan. But they wanted that initial impact, and the panic—and the results of both. Who died, how many? Just luck of the draw. One, a dozen, two dozen, that’s not important, not really. Result-oriented, right? Risk takers, gamblers, but focused on results. Blast the window open, grab what you can while the time’s ripe, then sell it at maximum profit.”

  When she shifted, Galahad leaped down, sauntered over to her sleep chair, jumped up.

  “It could be just a game, the gambling game,” she continued, and rose to join Roarke at the board. “But I put that low on the list. They put too much into it—the time, the effort, the risk—and were too willing to kill an undetermined number of people—even after beating up a woman, terrifying a kid—not to reap a solid reward. But … that’s relative, isn’t it? What might be a good profit for you, it’s a different level than, say, one for Peabody.”

  “Ten times an investment—likely more if they played the margins—is, regardless of the outlay, a very solid reward. If Peabody, for instance, bought five thousand of Econo this morning, she’d sell off now, if she chose, at more than fifty.”

  “I get that. And they may be more Peabody’s level, or they might be yours. They’re probably something between. Peabody told me she and McNab are going to give you ten K to invest.”

  “When they’ve put it together, and are comfortable with it.” He glanced over. “Does that concern you?”

  “No. Maybe. No.” She paced away, paced back. “No,” she said more definitely. “It’s their money, or will be, and you’ll be careful. Probably more careful than with your own.”

  She stopped, frowned again, paced again. “That’s a thing.”

  “Is it?” He strolled over, opened the wall panel for a bottle of wine.

  “They could save up the money, invest it themselves, but they don’t know squat about the stock market or trading or investments. They could go to some brokerage house and get somebody to advise them, but why do that when there’s you?”

  Still frowning, she took the wine Roarke offered. “So it’s smart on their part. It’s a smart way to invest, to—what do they say?—spend to make?”

  “They do say that.”

  “Trusting you with it, that’s as close to a sure thing as it gets. And this?” She gestured to the board. “That’s what they put together. It’s not so much a gamble if you stack the deck. Yeah, it can still go south, but you’ve skewed the odds in your favor. You’ve loaded the dice,” she murmured.

  “And by the time the house is wise to it,” Roarke finished, “you’ve taken your winnings and gone. We’ll eat,” he added, “then work on it. I think it’s a night for red meat.”

  She sat down to steak, tiny gold potatoes, tender spears of asparagus. After the first bite, she thought Roarke had been right again. It was a night for red meat.

  “When you were still on my board,” she began, “you roped me into having dinner with you here. Steak.”

  “I remember, yes.”

  “That was the second time I’d ever had real steak. The cow deal.”

  He broke a roll in two, handed her half. “You never said. When was the first?”

  “When I made LT, Feeney took me out for a steak dinner. You get so used to the fake stuff, you think, What’s the big deal?” She cut off a bite, studied it, ate it. “Then you find out. First steak,” she asked him.

  “I was eight, or about, and stole one when I was rummaging about in a big house in a fancy part of Dublin. People will hide valuables in their cold boxes, as if any thief worthy of the name won’t look there.”

  “Freezers,” she agreed, “underwear drawers. Usually the top two. So, the steak.”

  “Mick and Brian and I fried it up on a hot plate in our hideaway, and surely bollocksed that up altogether. And still, I’ve never had better, before or after.”

  When she smiled, he topped off her glass. “When Summerset took me in, we managed steak a time or two, and I learned how it was meant to taste. And still, that hunk of burned meat in our little hole was ambrosia.”

  “They won’t be like us. Those two,” she said with a gesture back at the board. “When you grow up hard, like we did, it can turn you mean, violent, vicious. It can warp you. Or it can make you remember the taste of something wonderful. Either way, that’s not them.”

  “Mean, violent, vicious? They don’t qualify?”

  “Sure, but it’s thought-out, it’s calculated, it’s carefully orchestrated. Not striking out, not payback, not survival or some fucked-up version of it. They don’t have to remember. They’re going to have advantages, most likely come from decent backgrounds. I’m betting a solid education and/or training.”

  Studying her, fascinated as always by her mind, its processes, he sliced a bite of steak. “Why?”

  “Okay, you gamble for a trio of basic reasons. For the hell of it, which includes the entertainment factor—and that means you can afford to lose, at least what you put in. Out of desperation or addiction, which usually means you lose even if you win because you’ll end up feeding it back. Or because you want more, you just want more. I lean toward the want more. At least with what I’ve got now.”

  She speared a tiny potato. “I also bet you’d know about some high-stake games right here in the city.”

  He cocked a brow, sipped his wine. “I may.”

  “It might be a thread to tug. You own some casino
s,” she continued, “but you don’t really gamble. Cards, dice, like that.”

  “The house always wins, so better to be the house than a guest in it. I’ve gambled here and there. It’s a good way to while away some time, and make a bit of profit. But it was always as much for the entertainment as anything else for me, or for the insight into the other players, all of whom might serve as a mark down the line.”

  “Every heist was a gamble,” she pointed out.

  “True enough, but that was also a vocation.” He smiled again. “A passion. Survival at first, then a way of life, then another kind of entertainment.”

  “Richard Troy gambled,” she said, referring to her father. “I can look back from this distance and realize, for him, it was as much a sickness as the drinking, as the abuse. Patrick Roarke gambled.”

  Roarke nodded. “He did, and it was much the same. Our bloody-minded fathers were much the same.”

  “These two aren’t like that, either. Not the types to lash out, to get shit-faced and pound on a kid. The more I think about it … This went so damn smooth for them. Sure, it took time, some investment, involved some risk, but it was clear profit in a matter of hours once it rolled. They’re going to do it again. People just don’t quit while they’re ahead.”

  “And so the house always wins,” Roarke agreed.

  “Do you know of any other big mergers, major shifts in the works, something that could be used to manipulate the market?”

  “There’s always something cooking somewhere.”

  “I think it has to be here in New York, almost has to be. Otherwise, you have travel, more time to pull it off. You have to know a target to hit it. Would they try the same thing again? Would they risk that? Shit. I have to think.”

  “Eat first.”

  “Right.” She cut more steak, tried to clear her mind so it could brew on what lodged in the corners. And remembered other things, more personal things.

  “Ah, anyway. I know that vid awards deal is Sunday.”

  Angling his head, he lifted his wine. “You surprise me.”

  “Well, I didn’t exactly know, then it came up, so I knew. And I know you like that sort of thing, but—”

  “You have a case, and it’s not the sort of thing you like whatsoever.”

  “Still.”

  Sometimes she wished he wouldn’t be so reasonable. It brought guilt tugging. Then again, plenty of times he wasn’t even close to reasonable, and that was a pisser.

  So.

  “I could probably work it to have you shuttle us out there in one of your fancy deals, but the thing is…”

  He waited, half-amused, half-curious, while she struggled through it.

  “It’s just a major pain in my ass, Roarke, the whole freaking thing. Not just the getting into some stupid outfit and having stuff slathered all over my face, and having to talk to people in stupid outfits with stuff slathered all over their faces. I can handle that okay, sometimes. I do it with you, for your stuff.”

  “You do, and it’s appreciated.”

  “Okay, good, but this? The damn book, the vid? I’ll be doing my job, and some wit, even a suspect says, Oh hey, I read the Icove book. I loved the vid, whatever, and it’s a weird pain in my ass. It wouldn’t surprise me one damn bit to be reading some fuckhead his rights and have him say: Man, that Icove vid rocked it out.”

  When he laughed, she scowled, ate more steak. “I’m serious.”

  “I know it.”

  “And worse? Oh, it’s worse. I’m about finished reading the Red Horse deal, because Nadine nagged the crap out of me about it. And it’s good. It’s goddamn stupid good, and I had to tell her because, friends. And even if I lied, said, Sorry, it blows, they’d publish it anyway, and make the next vid—they want a trilogy.”

  She finished on a windy huff of breath, and he took a moment to choose his words.

  “Darling Eve, I’m trying to be sympathetic, as your distress is very clear and obviously genuine.”

  “Damn straight it is.”

  “But you’ve gone and made a very talented woman a friend. A true and good one, and that’s the breaks.”

  “Goddamn breaks,” she muttered, and ate some more. “I’m not going to the fancy awards. Just no.”

  “One must take a stand, after all.”

  “She’ll probably win, just my luck.” Caught up, she brooded into her wine. “So anyway, Feeney and I hashed it out, and we’ll cut Peabody and McNab loose so they can go. They eat this stupid stuff with a spoon, and one of us should be there with Nadine, however it goes, even though she’s taking the rocker.”

  He said nothing, only stood, walked around the table, drew her to her feet. And cupping her face, kissed her soft and sweet.

  “A ghrá, you are a marvel.”

  “I don’t—”

  He kissed her again, then just gathered her in. “I love you beyond comprehension.”

  “Because I’m not going to some stupid dress-up party?”

  “That actually factors. Shall I arrange a shuttle for them? A suite?”

  She sighed, loved him beyond comprehension because he would do just that, without hesitation. “They’ll go with Nadine and the rocker. She’s got it. I’m not saying anything yet because I won’t get dick out of Peabody once she knows she’s going.”

  “Then we’d best contact Leonardo.”

  Eve snuggled in. “Why?”

  “Our girl needs an Oscar dress—and shoes, a bag. You could lend her the jewelry.”

  Now Eve yanked back. “But—”

  “He’ll come up with something for McNab that suits. There’s not much time, but I’ll wager Leonardo can make it work, especially for Peabody and McNab.”

  “Jesus, they already have clothes.”

  “Not to worry.” Roarke simply patted it, and her, aside. “I’ll take care of this part of it. My contribution. Why don’t you deal with the dishes, and I’ll deal with this? Then we’ll set our minds to murder.”

  “Life was easier when all I had to do was think about murder.”

  “Well now, you changed your spots to splotches, didn’t you?” He kissed her again, then pulled out his ’link.

  She muttered to herself as she gathered up the dishes.

  “Leonardo,” she heard him say. “And how are you and your girls?”

  She dealt with the cleanup, a fair trade in her mind, as she didn’t have to discuss fashion or accessories. By the time she got around to programming a pot of coffee, Roarke was tucking his ’link away.

  “He’s happy to help, so consider it done.”

  “I’m not considering it at all. Jordan Banks.”

  “Consider that all but done,” Roarke said, and strolled into his office.

  The thing was, Eve admitted, she could. While he entertained himself digging into Jordan Banks’s finances, Eve pulled her team’s first reports from her incoming.

  She scanned terminations first, highlighted any with connections to the military and/or finance.

  She noted a couple of names—former employees of one company who’d shifted to the second. Those she earmarked for a deeper run.

  * * *

  While Eve worked and Roarke dug, Jordan Banks had an epiphany. The bitch of a cop had told him to think—and he’d done anything but. He didn’t like being threatened or made to feel uneasy, so in his habitual way, he simply ignored the sensations and went to a party.

  Cocktails, illegals, music, a little quickie with the wife of a friend in a butler’s pantry. Some laughs, some gossip. He always filed gossip away for later use. Well utilized, gossip could be profitable.

  More than a little high, he closed himself in one of the bathrooms to record some of the juice in his memo book. Family squabbles, who was cheating with whom, gambling debts—you just never knew when a little inside knowledge could pay off.

  And it hit him.

  Certainly he’d pumped Willi for information—subtly, of course. Let me be your sounding board, cookie. You look so stres
sed, lover. Why don’t you tell me all about it while I give you a back rub?

  He’d gotten enough bits and pieces to be useful—and more yet by accessing her files on her comp. Enough to tell his money man to keep an eye on Quantum. Enough to sound in-the-know should the conversation turn to business at a gathering.

  Enough, he remembered now, to make a little loose change—always handy—for a little inside information.

  But that was months ago, he thought. And only a bit of I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. But when he thought it through, when he added in the visit from the bitch and the Irish bastard, it played out.

  Who would have thought!

  To his credit, Banks had a moment of distress. Mild and soon over. After all, he wasn’t at all responsible for the regrettable violence. In fact, he was a victim.

  Finding the softest route to victimhood was a particular skill he’d honed since childhood. It served him well.

  He calculated it now, considered the speed, the turns.

  He sat on the wide ledge of an apricot-colored jet tub big enough for four friends, fired up a joint of Erotica-laced Zoner he’d taken as a party favor, and contemplated. And, seeing the convergence of profit and victimhood, he took out his ’link.

  “Hi, there,” he said with a flashing smile. “We need to chat.”

  * * *

  When Roarke came in, Eve had two names at the top of her list.

  She swiveled in her chair. “I’ve got a couple to pull in for interview,” she began. “Both male, both in their forties, and they’ve each worked for both Econo and Quantum. One has eight years in the navy, the other has a father still active-duty USMC. No specific links to explosives training, but. One’s an IT specialist, and that’s a good way to dig out data. The other’s in accounting, and accounting knows finance. So.”

  When she poured more coffee, Roarke twirled a finger for her to fill a second cup.

  “Where do they work now?”

  “Former navy and IT is still Quantum. He moved from Econo two years ago. The other started with Quantum, shifted to Econo—about five years in both companies. Now he’s at a nonprofit called Resource of Animals Rights—or ROAR.”