Chapter Twelve
When she woke, Roarke sat with cat and tablet, with the screen on mute, with stock figures scrolling. He wore one of his richer-than-the-gods suits, this one smoky gray and matched with a shirt that was pale-as-a-pearl gray and a tie that slashed both tones with a deep maroon.
On the left lapel he wore the little petunia pin she’d given him.
Monday, and the traditional workweek, had arrived.
“You’ll have a bright day to chase the dark,” he said without looking up. “A warm one as well.”
“How’s the weather in Big Deal-a-stan?”
Those blue eyes flicked to hers with a smile in them. “Spring’s coming on in Brisbane.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s unnatural. Let me ask you something. How do you keep the times straight? Is there like a global clock running in your head?”
Now the smile touched his lips. “It’s just math.”
She sat up, shoved at her hair. “Not everybody’s good at math. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have everybody running on the same time, the same season? No confusion that way.”
“And that would be New York time and season?”
With a shrug, she got out of bed. “It’d be simpler.”
“You realize that would have large areas of the planet going to work, going to school, opening businesses, and so on through the dark of night.”
Another shrug as she programmed coffee. “Then they wouldn’t be stuck inside during the daylight.” She took a gulp of coffee. “Seems like a good trade-off.”
When she took her coffee into the bathroom, Roarke glanced down at the cat. “It’s not Earth logic, but Eve logic. Strangely, it works for her.”
In the shower, Eve ran through her plan for the morning. She’d hit the Barristers early, see if she could get any more details—and wouldn’t a name be nice?—on the blonde. If she got more, she could push more.
At Central, she needed to check on the status of the cold one Baxter and Trueheart had picked up, and any hot ones that may have come in over the weekend.
She needed to take a closer, deeper look at the files Abernathy had sent her, at the names Roarke had culled out of those—so far. At the finances he’d scoped.
Touch base with Feeney and Detective Willowby on any underground chatter about the emeralds.
The thief, she thought as she stood in the swirling air of the drying tube, had already turned over the take, and unless they were a complete idiot, had the fat fee.
Sitting on a beach somewhere, she imagined, slurping down umbrella drinks, admiring the view.
Before she was done, they’d be admiring the view in a concrete cage.
She stepped out to breakfast waiting under domes and the cat sulking on the floor a few feet away.
“You own resorts with bars and beaches and pools.”
“I do.”
“So why do they put those little umbrellas in drinks at the bars?”
“I suppose to symbolize celebration.”
“Why not little balloons then? You pull out an umbrella when it’s raining. For some reason people like to blow up balloons at a party.”
“I’ll be sure to run that by the bar managers. Tiny balloons, weighted, of course, so they don’t just float away.” He took the domes off omelets. “Your mind’s busy this morning.”
“Whoever took the emeralds and killed Barrister probably has an umbrella in their drink right now. Probably lazing around on some beach down where spring’s coming on.”
“And there’s the connection.”
“Maybe Fiji. That’s down there, right?”
“It is indeed down there.”
She cut into the omelet; fragrant steam rose. “I guess it burns my ass thinking they’re soaking up rays in Fiji or wherever, kicked back in a lounge chair with an umbrella drink and a fat fee.”
“Would you like a quick trip to Fiji to check the beaches and bars for suspicious characters?”
“What I want is to drag their ass back to New York, toss them in the box, and make them cry.”
She ate some omelet. Yes, it held spinach, but it also held cheese and chunks of ham.
“I want to find the blonde and pull her smirky ass into the box. The timing with her…” Shaking her head, Eve picked up the coffee he’d poured her. “It feels like something.”
“Your feel-like-somethings are usually accurate.”
“I still need a name, a face. Maybe I’ll have one this morning. And I’m hoping by now EDD’s caught some chatter about the emeralds. Unless whoever stole them—or more likely paid for the theft—wants to do just what Henry Barrister did. Lock them away.”
“So, your mysterious and smirking blonde.”
“Yeah. Somebody knew the emeralds were there, somebody wanted them. I can mostly believe no one in the household’s involved there. Nothing shows otherwise.”
“But.”
“Mostly isn’t a hundred percent, and I have to factor in just letting it slip to the wrong person. Now you’re either afraid to say so, or you just don’t think whoever you told could possibly be part of this.”
“Or, less likely but possibly, something you said months ago hasn’t clicked for you now.”
“Less likely, yeah. But the blonde? Going after an old man like seventy years her senior? That screams con artist, gold digger, opportunist—take your pick.”
“Possibly all three.”
“Right. And the timing with her in New York when the old man’s starting to slide? When you look at the whole thing, who was most likely to slip and say something about the vault?”
“Henry.”
“Yeah, and you’ve got this blond operator right there. Wife four, and wife at the time of that party, didn’t have a name, didn’t know who she’d come with.”
“You think party crasher.”
“When I put it together, that’s where I’m leaning.
Make the connection. Barrister’s rolling in it, and he likes them young.
Flatter, flirt, fuel up that old libido.
The fourth ex says she saw the blonde a couple more times, so that says she, the blonde, kept the connection going.
Then she’s on tap again, just a couple months before he dies.
I’m thinking they stayed in touch, and maybe somebody in the household remembers her. ”
After finishing off the omelet, she shifted to him. “You wouldn’t fall for it.”
“Obviously, I prefer brunettes.”
“Not that. You wouldn’t fall for the play. You’ve been on the grift, and you wouldn’t fall for it. Like Mavis wouldn’t. You’d cop to the tells. Plus, women come on to you all the time.”
“Do they?”
“Jesus, Roarke, I’m often standing right there. You know when it’s a play.”
“Add I love my wife, and want to avoid her cha-cha.”
She laughed, kissed him, rose. “The point? Henry Barrister either didn’t care or had a wide-ass blind spot when it came to being played by a woman. Since, by all accounts, he was a player himself, I think the first. It didn’t matter as long as he got the young, hot sex.”
“Worth the cost to him. Yes, I agree with that. But not just the sex, Eve, at least to my thinking. The flattery, the attention, the shine of having something young, beautiful that others would envy on his arm. In his hands.”
“I’m going to agree there.”
She walked into her closet and tried not to think too hard about what always struck her as acres of clothes.
She’d just go with Roarke’s theme of the day. Gray.
She grabbed dark gray trousers, considered a shirt.
She couldn’t go with the maroon—too close to red, and red struck her as flashy. She went with a non-flashy blue. He’d probably have pulled out a blue belt, but she stuck with gray for the belt, for the boots.
She dressed, then because she had a weakness, went with a gray jacket in buttery leather. Coming out, she tossed the jacket on the arm of the sofa as she walked over to hook on her weapon harness.
“I have some things to see to today.”
She glanced back at him as she filled her pockets. “Imagine that.”
“But I should have a bit of time this afternoon for the investigators’ reports. I’ll check in with Feeney myself, as I’m curious there.”
“Okay.” She swung on the jacket, then frowned. “You know, maybe the fourth wife would work with a police artist. She really hates the blonde, so she might be willing. I’m betting that face is stuck in her brain.”
“Where is she?”
“Montana. Bozeman. They have to have police artists. I might try that. I’ve gotta go.”
“You could send Yancy,” he said as he rose.
“Not enough solid for that.”
“If there’s something there, you’ll solidify it.” He drew her in. “While you’re about it, take care of my cop.”
“I think since I’m reinterviewing and digging through files, I won’t have to work hard at that one.”
She kissed him. “You don’t own Fiji, right?”
“The island? No. Just a few spots on it.”
“It’d be funny if it turns out the killer thief ended up getting busted in one of them.”
“While holding an umbrella drink.”
“Even funnier. See you tonight. Cat’s making his move.”
It amused her the way Roarke turned, aimed those blue eyes at the cat, and the way the cat stopped his casual saunter toward the breakfast plates.
It amused her more, as she headed out, imagining Roarke would end up giving the cat a few of those little treats Galahad pounced on like a junkie on his fix.
Her car was waiting for her. She slid inside and started the short trip across town.
Dog walkers—one woman had two that looked like mops with legs prancing along.
Joggers aiming for the great park. Kids in uniforms heading to their private school or being led there by a parent or nanny.
A liveried doorman opening the door for a woman breezing out of her building.
She carried a gold briefcase that matched her shoes, her sunshades.
The doorman hotfooted it to a black sedan to open the rear door for her before the driver could.
Eve caught a red light, watched pedestrians, a mix of business clothes and day laborer attire, stream across. A few, fresh from the subway, picked up their pace to try to make the light.
Since Peabody was one of them, Eve angled toward the curb, tapped the horn.
The tap kicked off a blast of a dozen horns Eve ignored as Peabody jumped in.
“Hey, nice timing.” Peabody strapped in as the light changed. “We ran into Summerset at the street fair.”
“So I heard.”