Chapter Fourteen
She made her way back to Homicide, and noted Jenkinson and his tie, Reineke and his socks weren’t at their desks.
“They caught one right after you left,” Baxter told her. “DB in a dumpster, Alphabet City.”
“Okay. Peabody?”
“No luck yet. Still looking.”
“Keep at it. We’ve got about an hour before the media conference.”
In her office, she got coffee, sat. She put her boots on the desk and studied her board. A minute later, she got up, added a sheet that said simply: Fancy Blonde.
“You’re in it.”
She sat, boots up again.
Must’ve tapped him off and on over the years. Such an easy mark.
The marriage, or lack of it, bugged her a little. He’d already gone there four times. Why not lure him into five? Big potential payday there.
Reasons why not? Couldn’t quite stomach sexing it up with a man old enough to be her great-grandfather. Whatever marriage paid out, it also cut down on some freedom. A good attorney, which he’d have, is going to put a rock-solid prenup in place.
She’d check on that.
Other fish to fry, lambs to fleece. Harder to do that when you’re married. Not impossible, just harder. And if he catches you there, you get the boot, and the well runs dry.
“You didn’t want to be the fifth Ms. Henry Barrister. Just wanted whatever you could squeeze out of him when you felt like squeezing. Or needed to.”
Because it nagged at her, she contacted Lacey O’Ryan again.
“Lieutenant. Is this important? It’s my morning to make breakfast. I’m a very nervous cook.”
“I’ll make it quick. I wondered if you could pinpoint where you first saw the young blonde—your last straw, you said.”
“As it happens. Damn it! This just looks like goo! I’m trying to make pancakes from scratch.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve lost my mind. It’s not cooperating. I’m stepping away for a minute. I need more coffee. I mentioned your call to a friend—we’ve been friends for years. And she remembered. Lake Como. We took a villa there for a month. It was glorious. Until that party, and that blonde.”
“Lake Como, and when, exactly?”
“It would’ve been sometime in June—what year was that? I don’t remember. The June before I filed for divorce.”
She pulled a large mug of coffee out of the AutoChef and took a long sip.
“Better. I should never cook without extra caffeine or completely sober.”
“You said you saw her a couple more times between then and when you saw her in New York more recently.”
“Yes, in the village near the villa. At an outdoor restaurant. Later, another friend said she’d seen Henry with her. We had some words about that, Henry and I. When we got back to New York, I talked to a lawyer, but I didn’t file until I saw her again, in the early fall, I think.”
“In New York.”
“No, we’d gone to … where was it? Maine.
To see the foliage, and I thought, potentially, to patch things up.
And there she was, sitting in the bar of our hotel.
I walked over, told her she could have him.
She just smiled at me. I went back up to the room.
I’d been going out to do some early Christmas shopping.
Henry enjoyed that, but he’d made an excuse to stay back. For obvious reasons.”
She gulped coffee, hissed out a breath.
“I told him I was done, that since he couldn’t be faithful, I was done. He said he was sorry he couldn’t be. And I swear he meant it. So I came back to New York, moved my things out, filed for divorce.”
She let out a long, long sigh. “He offered, over and above the settlement, to buy me a house wherever I wanted. And I realized I didn’t want to live in a home he’d bought for me. Even though the money I had to buy my own had come from him.”
“There’s a difference.”
The annoyed look faded into appreciation.
“Yes, thanks. There’s a difference. We split on remarkably easy terms, but my heart wasn’t broken. Pride dented, ego bruised, that’s all.”
“I appreciate this.”
“It actually felt good to spurt it out. I really don’t harbor hard feelings. I told you that before. But that smirk—it’s stuck too long.”
“Since last December.”
“Yes. We brought the kids over to see Christmas in New York. Ice-skating, roasted chestnuts, Radio City’s holiday show, the works.”
“Thank you. This is helpful.”
“Okay. Well, I’m going to try this pancake thing again.”
“Good luck with that.”
December, Eve thought as she sat back again. And Henry died in February. Allegedly, and she believed it, Nathan and Aileen learned of the vault in July. Then the break-in, theft, murder came in September.
Nine months between the blonde’s visit and the break-in. Seven if you counted from Henry’s death to the theft. Less than three from the discovery of the vault to the break-in.
She checked the time, argued with herself. Then contacted Roarke.
When he came on-screen, she led with, “I’m sorry, but I’ve got a question.”
“It’s not a problem at the moment. I’m between meetings.”
“Yeah, me, too. Okay, so you’re going to steal the Royal Suite.”
When he smiled, she all but heard him think: Been there, done that.
“How long between finding the location, in the current circumstances, and the grab?”
“That would entirely depend on a multitude of factors. You might say anywhere from straightaway—which is risky and reckless. But there are many in a cage or the grave who try that route. And up to a year.”
“A year? I don’t get it.”
“Which is why you’re not and never have been a successful and high-level thief, Lieutenant.
You’d want authentication. Why take the trouble if they’re fake?
You’d need time to assess the security and so on—the rhythm of the house and occupants in this case.
Unless you plan to work solo, you’d need the broker, the thief, the client.
If it’s an auction you’re after, that takes time to set up carefully.
The accounts you’d need, the location that serves, the invitation list. If you don’t have the ready yourself or financial backing, you’d need to find it. ”
“Because it all costs.”
“An investment of seventy-five, a hundred million wouldn’t be out of bounds here. Unless, again, you’re the risky and reckless sort. Then you might make the grab well enough, you might have the Suite in hand. But now what the bloody hell do you do with it?”
“So the smart way is to set it all up first.”
“And go over every tiny, minute detail, with contingencies, alternates. This is no quick snatch of a handful of baubles. Six months to that year, though I’d consider the year on the long side.”
“How about eight, nine months?”
“It fits right in there, doesn’t it now? Would this relate to your unknown blonde with the smirk?”
“Yeah. Confirmed she visited Henry, stayed at Barrister House last December. She’s stayed there before, shared the bedroom with the man old enough to be her great-grandfather on those stops. Yancy’s going to work with the staff on a picture later today.”
“I’d say this one knows how to play the long game, and would take the smart and careful route. For the time, the investment, she could walk away with up to four hundred million in profit. And more.”
“There’s more?”
“A reputation that would afford her an exceptional life and lifestyle. That’s my time, darling. I’ll be giving Feeney a hand later, but from the home lab so I can juggle in my own work.”
“Appreciated. I’m talking to the lawyer later, and may work at home after that. I’ll see you.”
“Good luck with the media.”
“Yeah, right.”
She gave herself thirty seconds to sulk over that, and might have taken thirty more, but she heard the click of high-fashioned heels coming toward her office.
It didn’t surprise her when Nadine walked in on those heels.
“I brought you a brownie, and potentially some information.”
She could smell the damn chocolate, and chocolate would equal a boost either before or after the media. Even so, the potential information gave Nadine more of an entry.
“Give it.”
Nadine set the little bakery box on Eve’s desk, and her sharp reporter’s eyes arrowed toward the board. “Fancy Blonde?”
“You’re here to give info, not get it. I’m talking to your type in a little while.”
“And I’ll be there. What fancy blonde?”
“What info?”
“Fine. Can I get you coffee?”
Eve leaned back in her chair. “Fine.”
In her fashionable pumpkin-colored heels that matched the fashionable pumpkin-colored dress under a short suede jacket that reminded Eve of the vegetable strangely known as eggplant, Nadine programmed two coffees.
“I’ve been looking into the Royal Suite—on my own,” she added as she handed Eve her coffee. “That made one hell of a splash when it was stolen from the Tate.”
“I’m aware.”
“Every report I’ve dug up attributes it to a well-organized group. An e-man, security expert, someone on the inside, though they never pinned anyone there, the jewel thief, and so on.”
“Is that right?”
“Since it’s out there, I pushed on some sources, leaving the emeralds out of it. Clearly, from the list I have from the vault, that was the most valuable item. Well, items.”
“You have a content list from the vault at Barrister House?”
Those foxy eyes smiled at Eve as Nadine sipped her coffee.
“I’m a very clever woman. One of my sources was part of several of the investigations into the thefts.
He strongly believes Henry Barrister worked through a broker.
I’m assuming you know about how that works, and have drawn that conclusion as you’re also a very clever woman. ”
“You’re not giving me anything but a brownie so far.”
“He also strongly believes that this theft—” Nadine held up a hand.
“He didn’t mention the emeralds, either, though he likely knows, as he’s still active.
Anyway, he strongly believes one of the original thieves targeted Barrister House.
Assessing who bought them, where they were kept, and after the original client died, hey, why not take them back, resell them? ”
“And how did this thief access the information? As a very clever woman, you’d have learned how that whole broker deal works.”