Chapter Six
They had a rhythm going back to her uniform days when he’d taken her off the beat to train in Homicide. That rhythm made briefing him easy and quick.
“So the old man collected like this for decades. Probably easier and cheaper to pull it off during the Urbans and the right after. Then he ends up buying the place that used to be a damn museum. Bet he got a chuckle out of that one.”
“You gotta figure.”
“You looking at his exes?”
She eased a hip on the corner of the desk.
“You gotta figure,” she repeated. “Maybe he lets one—or more—of them in on it. I don’t weigh that one heavy.
Maybe something slips out, or one of them sees something that puts her onto it.
But she waits—and that’s kind of shaky—until he’s dead to go after something. The biggest something in there.”
“Victim show up clean on the run?”
“Yeah, near to squeaky, so there’s that. If they know him at all, they’d figure he’d do just what he planned to do. Return everything.”
“‘Might as well get a little something for my trouble. I married the bastard, and what’d I get out of it?’”
“I’m going to look into that, but no matter what, it didn’t add up to half a billion in emeralds.
The mother of the victim and his sister remarried—twice.
She currently lives in the South of France with her number three.
The first wife just celebrated her centennial.
Two other marriages, two other divorces.
No offspring. She has an apartment—the pied-à-terre deal on Madison—but her base is Kauai.
Second ex, an actress—Barrister was also her second ex—lives in Malibu, second home in Aruba, with her number three.
The other ex—that’s number four—lives in Bozeman, Montana, with her second husband and two kids from that marriage. ”
Once again, she had to tread carefully. Once again, she didn’t like it.
“Roarke thinks it’s likely a theft like this—something of this value and fame—would be contracted.
Like through an intermediary, a kind of broker.
So the thief might not know who’s paying him to steal it.
He can’t sell it himself, not on the open market, I mean.
And it would bottom out the value to bust it apart, reset the stones. ”
He just nodded along with her. Because they had that rhythm, she knew he understood she had to tread carefully.
“Makes sense to me. I knew about it because it was a bfd at the time it got plucked. We’ll set up the sneak, keep tabs on any chatter. You get Willowby in, and she’s got plenty of aces up her sleeve.”
He pointed at the board, at the murder weapon. “That’s what bashed him? Hell of a thing. Just sitting around?”
“In the office, on a kind of tray that lit up.”
“Weapon of opportunity then. Victim wanders in before you’re done. Grab, bash, go. But he had to know—or if a hire, that one had to know—about the vault.”
“That’s number one. Who knew and how. It wasn’t that tricky a job, Feeney.
Their security hadn’t been updated. Decent but not tough to undermine.
The vault—old. Some skill required, sure, but it doesn’t strike me any of it took a master.
Not like plucking a Corot out of the Met, or emeralds out of the Tate. ”
He scratched through his wiry hair. “Yeah, I’m with you there. Add in somebody who panics easy enough to kill. Or doesn’t care about adding murder to the mix. Well.”
He got to his feet. “How about you top this off, and I go up and arrange the sneak before I head home?”
She got him more coffee. “Interpol’s going to contact you.”
“No problem. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got something to get back to you about.”
“Appreciate it.”
When he left, Eve took the desk and started the run on Joy Barrister while she looked over Peabody’s data on the housekeeper.
Uma Acker grew up in Yonkers, where her mother still lived. Her parents divorced when she was twelve and her younger sister eight. Her father lived in Wyoming and listed himself as a lieutenant colonel in the True Patriots militia.
Because Peabody was thorough, she’d listed Lloyd Acker’s numerous arrests, including a spousal battery charge a few months before the divorce.
Uma Acker got in a couple years of community college while working for the cleaning service the Barristers still used. Then began her employment—first as an assistant housekeeper—at Barrister House.
No marriages, no offspring. No criminal.
Eve made a note to have Roarke dig into the financials.
She heard Peabody’s boot-clomping approach, glanced over.
“I just sent you Henry Barrister’s data. It’s a lot. Baxter and Trueheart are still in the field. I can do another run, stick until they get back.”
“No, take off. I’m going to keep at it awhile, then I’m taking it home. I’m running the sister now.”
“Anything hits, tag me.”
With a nod, Eve turned back to her screen.
Joy Barrister, age fifty-two—fancy private schools like her brother. Harvard MBA like her brother. At thirty-one she married Anton Sampson. The marriage lasted three years. No offspring.
Sampson, age fifty-two, part of the Sampson-Burnett family who made their fortune with Burnett Wine and Spirits, remarried two years after the divorce, remained married, had three offspring.
Joy lived in Barrister House until her marriage, and during the separation moved into the Barrister-owned condo, which she’d inherited in full upon her father’s death.
After college, she’d officially joined the family firm, full-time as a VP in accounts, domestic, and now stood as chief financial officer.
To the tune of one-point-eight million a year, plus bonuses.
She toggled back to check Nathan Barrister’s annual salary. Two-point-six.
And made a note to consult Roarke on the pay gap.
She was on the board of a couple of charities, served as treasurer for the Barrister Family Foundation—and that one brought in another eight hundred K a year.
The victim had served as president, same salary.
Interesting.
The divorce had netted her a town house, which she’d promptly sold. He’d bagged the house in Isle of Palms, which he still owned. He got a boat; she got a car. And blah blah, Eve thought, pretty standard rich people settlement.
No criminal.
She turned to the board, frowned.
“Plenty of money to hire a thief, but why? No handling the whole thing quietly that way.”
She heard a bark of laughter from the bullpen. Baxter and Trueheart were back. She’d take all this home, bounce a few things off Roarke, update her board there. Swing by Barrister House on the way.
Maybe shake something loose.
Before she could shut down, her ’link signaled.
“Dallas.”
“Lieutenant Dallas, I’m Chloe Barrister. My dad…”
“Yes. I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Her eyes, a strong blue, were swollen from weeping. She’d pulled her dark, curly hair back in a tail that left her face unframed and accented knife-edge cheekbones.
“We went—we went to the place to see my father. I don’t understand how … I need to know how. Why. What are you doing to find out who did this?”
“Everything we can. Finding out who took your father’s life is my priority. If you and your family are available, I’d like to come speak to you again. I’ll try to answer some of your questions.”
“Yes. Please. Yes.”
“I’ll be there within the hour.”
Eve shut down, shoved at her hair, then walked out to the bullpen. This time both detectives worked their comps.
“I’m in the field, then I’m home. Any thawing on the cold case?”
Baxter kicked back. “We talked to the vic’s sort of boyfriend at the time.
Casual, not exclusive, but amiable with benefits.
He’s married now with a kid on the way. Stuck to his story.
They were going to meet up for dinner, but he had to cancel—a work thing.
And that checks out now like it did back then. ”
“Stuck in the office, with witnesses,” Trueheart put in. “Until after nine. Went out for a couple of drinks with some office pals, shared a cab with one of them, and got home about quarter to eleven.”
“TOD?”
“Twenty-three-fifteen. And yeah”—Baxter shrugged—“gives him about a little room, if he moved fast, to meet up with her, take a walk in the park, and kill her. But there’s no buzz, no vibe, no nothing.”
“Add one of his apartment neighbors saw him come in. They both bitched about the elevator being out again, and walked upstairs together.” Trueheart shook his head. “It came off he really liked her, but neither one of them were thinking about the long haul.”
“She liked to walk at night,” Baxter added. “That’s in the file, and both he and the best pal corroborated. But both of them said then, and now, they didn’t get why she’d have been in the park. She sometimes cut through there during the day, but never at night.”
When Trueheart picked it up again, Eve thought they’d developed that easy rhythm partners needed.
“The best friend vouched for the boyfriend. Said they all liked to just hang when they could get together. That’s the vic, the boyfriend, the best friend, and the guy she was seeing.”
“Married to him now, and got twin toddlers. Cute kids. And she had cake.” Baxter smiled with the memory. “Really good spice cake.”
“She’s taking a baking class for fun.”
“Yeah, go figure. She was adamant the vic wouldn’t have cut through the park at night, not alone. If she went through, she’d been with someone. Nobody ever turned up. So we’re going to turn them up. Right, partner?”
Trueheart lifted a fist to bump. “You got that.”
“They weren’t serious or exclusive, so.”
“Yeah. Somebody else she went out with. Nobody popped.” Baxter rubbed his hands together. “We’re going to make ’em pop.”
“Keep pushing on it.”
She took the glides down. She had to make something pop, she thought. The straight line led to a break-in and theft ending in murder. But who hired the thief? Who knew about the vault?