Chapter Thirteen #2
Through the glass walls, she spotted Feeney, his dirt-brown suit a calm contrast to the three with him.
McNab in a multicolored polka-dot shirt tucked into explosive red baggies, which only confirmed her red’s-flashy stance. He wore the tartan airboots she and Roarke had given him for Christmas the year before.
Callendar, her hair sporting a purple haze over black, ticktocked her hips in baggies striped in red, green, yellow—all three in what Eve considered the screaming range of their particular hue.
She paired it with a white shirt that had a cartoon boomer with a lit fuse centered. Beneath, it warned: ANY MINUTE NOW!
Down the long counter stood Detective Zela Willowby. Though assigned to Special Victims, she knew the dark reaches of the underground, and usually hunted them for those others bought and sold like candy.
Small, compact, she looked about sixteen, with her golden brown skin, amber eyes, sharp features. She added to that impression with platform combat boots, purple baggies that matched the heavy fringe on her otherwise black wedge of hair, and a black shirt covered with neon stars.
When she stepped in, music blasted Eve’s ears.
“Jesus, how do you think with the noise?”
Feeney turned. With the weekend’s work, the bags under his eyes looked like they’d hold a week’s wardrobe. His hair stood up and out like a man’s who’d barely survived an electric shock.
“Cut the music.” In the blessed quiet, he shrugged. “Tedious work, kid. Gotta keep revved.”
“The cap goes for the classical.” Willowby blew a bright pink bubble with her gum, snapped it. “Seriously iced playlist.”
“Got the Stones, the Boss, Fab Four, a little Heart, Bon Jovi, Gaga. Mixed in Avenue A, Mavis for more contemp.”
“Keeps us juiced.” Callendar sucked up some of her fizzy through a straw.
“You just missed Abernathy,” Feeney told her.
“Aw, that’s a shame.”
He grinned at that. “He’ll be back. We’re running pretty smooth with Interpol.”
“He’s a neck-breather.” McNab rolled his shoulders. “You know, breathes down your neck.”
“I got it. What have you got for me?”
“Take it, Willowby.”
She gave Feeney a quick salute. “Lots of chatter how something big’s coming. Most of that’s on dark sites where whatever it is, they can’t afford it. Cough up a few hundred thou for a slave, maybe up to a mil or two for a solid sex trade or something nice and shiny, but not the big guns.”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-uh.” She picked up her own drink, gestured with it, gulped some down.
“We’re starting to see more teasers. You know, like you see at the vids?
Previews of coming attractions, and just on the major money sites.
Like sheikhs and shit. The mega-extreme rich.
They’re setting the opening bid at three hundred mil, invite only.
And there’s nothing we’ve scratched up yet that says what’s going up for bid. ”
“Can you trace any of it back?”
“Catch,” Willowby said, and mimed tossing a ball to McNab.
“We’re working on it, but it’s slow going. The tedious deal? They bounce, add twisties, redirect, lights out. We got an off-planet ping, but that tapped out.”
Eve held up a hand. “Don’t talk geek to me.”
Callendar picked it up. “Easiest to say they’d know we’d be looking, so they’ve set up a really slick system for, like, obfuscating. They didn’t set this up yesterday, you get me? Took a lot of time and skill. They’ve got money and e-talent plenty for this.”
“We’ll dig them up,” Willowby said. “It’s going to take time, but we’ll get them.”
Eve looked at Feeney. “Would you bid three hundred mil on something you saw on the web? Something you didn’t see in person, your own eyes, with your own expert authenticating?”
He grinned at her. “Well, hell no, even if I had Roarke’s money. And so say we all.”
“Gotta figure they’d go low-tech.” Callendar slurped more fizzy. “Cap says invites, in the hand, private messenger.”
“Going to be a select group,” McNab added.
“Like the guy who had it in the vault.” Willowby blew another bubble. Puff it out, snap, pull it back in. “Fancy invite.”
“Fancy,” Eve murmured.
“Sure. All gold, engraved, all that shit. Time, date, location. Location’s probably fancy, too.”
“Chateau, villa, mansion, castle.” McNab shrugged. “And one of those black-tie deals. Gotta set the stage. But you also gotta know who’d buy in.”
“Not just the ones rolling in it,” Feeney put in. “But you curate, right?”
“You have to know who’d pay—maybe has before—for something they couldn’t wear in public, couldn’t brag about having.” Eve nodded. “I’ve got that.”
“There’s where we whittle it down.” Feeney picked up cold cop coffee, frowned into it.
“How about I get you a fizzy, Cap?”
“Yeah.” Nodding at McNab, Feeney set the coffee down.
“Lemon. I’m feeling sour. We put watches on those who fit the bill.
Interpol’s a big hand up on that. Auction’s going to want cash or direct wire.
Something like this, you probably have to lay down a deposit before the auction.
Like an entrance fee, you know? Cover charge. ”
“Proof you’re a serious buyer. Okay. You watch accounts.”
“Means you’ve got to find the ones that aren’t on the up-and-up. I don’t suppose Roarke has any free time.”
“Mmm. Sizzle.” Willowby just wiggled her eyebrows at Eve’s stony stare.
“Ask him. Meanwhile, I’m looking for a blonde. A looker, mid-thirties. Has gone by Ms. Fancy. I don’t know if that’s her name, an alias, a nickname. She was cozying up to Henry Barrister before he died.”
“You figure she found out about the vault.”
“I figure just that. She’s an operator. She started working him when she was about twenty, so she knows how to play the long game. I think she’s in this.”
“If we find anybody who fits, you’ll be the first. Thanks,” he added as McNab brought him a fizzy. “I gotta tell you, when we pin this down, it’s most likely going to lead to a bust at the auction. If it ain’t happening in New York, it’s going to be Interpol’s bust.”
“I want who bashed Nathan Barrister’s head in. Interpol or the locals wherever can have the shiny.”
“They’re putting the time and brains in, too.” Willowby sighed. “But it’s a wheeze deal. Some of these assholes would’ve maybe bought from the sex slave ring we busted up. I’d like a shot at them.”
“Interpol busts them for this, you give that a push.”
“That’s the plan. How’s Dorian?”
“Good. Safe, in school, and by all accounts taking this chance at a decent life seriously. You could go by An Didean sometime, see for yourself. You’re part of what gave her that chance.”
“Yeah. I wanted to give her some time to settle in first. I think I’ll go by there. I’m going to drop by Homicide when I take a break here. Check out the sizzle of Trueheart.”
“Jesus, why do you tell me this?” Eve pressed fingers to her twitching eye. “I’ve got a meet with Mira. Keep me up on this, and don’t forget the blonde.”
Before the doors closed behind her, music blasted.
She took the glides to Mira.
Private auction, she thought. The only thing that made sense. In person, with a bunch of morally empty rich people. The private, personal messenger–delivered invitations worked, too. Classy.
She could imagine it. Black tie and sleek gowns. Champagne and caviar in a location that also reeked of money.
And wouldn’t that atmosphere, the competition between the morally empty rich, kick the bidding up?
Damn right it would, so the ones running the show could afford to shell out a big pile of money to make it all work. Invest, say, a hundred million, rake in triple that if not more.
And no one involved, not a one, would give a single thought to the murder. Just another cost of doing business.
It boiled in her blood, kept her moving quickly so she arrived at Mira’s a few minutes early.
“You’re prompt today, Lieutenant.”
Mira’s guardian of the gates gave her one cool stare.
“I can wait if she’s not ready for me.”
“I’ll just check.” She tapped her earpiece. “Dr. Mira, Lieutenant Dallas is here. Yes, of course.”
Another tap. “You can go right in. Dr. Mira has a ten-forty-five and has yet to have a break this morning.”
“I won’t keep her any longer than I have to.”
She walked into the office, where Mira sat at her desk in a silky-looking suit the color of crushed raspberries. But it didn’t, to Eve’s eye, come off flashy.
She had her hair, with its subtle blond streaks over mink, in a kind of roll today. She’d added a single string of pearls and had pearl studs at her ears.
No, not flashy. Classy.
“Have a seat. Just let me…” Mira tapped keys, nodded. “There, done.” She looked up. The crushed-raspberry lips curved, the soft blue eyes smiled with it. “I love that jacket.”
“Oh, yeah. Thanks.”
Mira rose, walked to her AutoChef on raspberry-colored shoes with high, pearl-colored heels.
Eve always found it amazing.
“You’ve been busy,” Mira said as she programmed tea. “And all weekend.”
“Killers just don’t take weekends off.”
“No, they don’t. And the Royal Suite.”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Yes. I remember when it was stolen—it has to be nearly twenty years ago. International news. A very daring heist. If I recall, the speculation was a gang of jewel thieves had planned it for months, if not years.”
Eve only said, “Mmm,” as Mira brought her the flowery tea.
“And only to be locked away for one man’s pleasure. Then stolen again. You believe the victim, and the family, and the staff, were unaware of the vault, what it held until after Henry Barrister’s death.”
“Evidence weighs on that side of the scale. I’ll talk to the estate lawyer later today.
The family—wife, sister, two daughters—all state the victim contacted him.
Not right away. They spent most of the summer researching every piece, and working out how best to protect themselves and the business.
Not the best way to handle it, but it’s plausible. ”
Mira crossed her legs, and in a way that also always amazed, balanced the delicate saucer on one knee.