Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(16)

“Why explosives?” Peabody picked up. “Killing multiples rather than homing in on specifics—if inheritance is the motive?”

“Point,” Eve agreed. “More probable someone with a grievance against one or both of the companies. More probable someone who benefits from—ha ha—blowing up the deal. You toss both companies into chaos, postpone or kill the merger, while the new leadership comes in to deal with the fallout.”

“I don’t get what’s gained if the merger goes south, especially if it’s just postponed.”

“That’s what we’ll ask our expert consultant, civilian.”

“McNab and I are giving Roarke ten thousand to invest for us.”

“What?”

“I asked Roarke a while back, and we’re not there yet, but close. We’re going to do five each, and give it to Roarke.”

The idea made Eve’s stomach sink a little. “That’s a lot of scratch to gamble on detectives’ salaries.”

“We might want to buy a place one day. An apartment or even a townhouse. If you wanted to invest, who would you trust with it?”

“Roarke,” she admitted, “since I know pretty much squat about investing.”

“Exactly.”

“He bought a farm,” Eve muttered.

“He bought the farm? You’re mixing up your idioms again.”

“A farm. An actual farm, somewhere in Nebraska, because I made some comment that turned into a challenge in his head. So he bought this shithole farm in Bumfuck, in my name.”

“You’re going to live on a farm in Nebraska?”

“Jesus Christ, Peabody, did a glug of rat soup melt your brain? He’s going to do something with it, who knows what? Make it something or other and sell it or something. It’s a craphole of a house with weird craphole buildings on a bunch of scary, empty land in the middle of nowhere Nebraska.”

“And you own it.”

“Technically.” Which bugged and baffled her—which she knew stood as reason number one he’d done it in the first damn place. “What I’m saying is whatever he paid for this bullshit is a game to him. Even if he loses the challenge, he’ll be, you know, amused. If you give him your money, it won’t be a game to him. He’ll be careful with it.”

“I know it. The idea’s a little scary, but exciting, too. And it wasn’t rat soup. There’s maybe, possibly, a scant ten percent chance it was squirrel.”

Eve pulled into Central’s underground lot. “What’s the difference?”

“Squirrels are sort of cute and fuzzy. And they can have personality.”

After zipping into her slot, Eve shifted in her seat. “Look in a squirrel’s eyes next time you see one scampering along like a fuzzy rat. Right in the eyes. They’re lunatics.”

As she swung out of the car, her communicator signaled. She saw Whitney’s office on the readout. “Dallas.”

“Please report to the commander’s office as soon as possible.”

“I’m in the house. I’m on my way up.” She clicked off. And there went her thinking time. “Get the conference room set up for the briefing with Baxter and Trueheart. Start runs on the beneficiaries,” she continued as she strode to the elevator. “We need to check in with EDD, get the status, and check like crimes for anything that rings with the home invasion.”

In the elevator she ran through a host of other things she needed. She’d start on them herself once she’d met with Whitney.

The minute the elevator stopped so more cops could crowd in, she abandoned Peabody, headed for the glides.

She pulled out her ’link on the way, tagged Roarke.

It went straight through so that face—carved by the gods with eyes of impossible, soul-spinning blue—filled her screen. “I guess you’re not real busy buying a recently discovered solar system.”

“On my way back from a very long lunch meeting.” With those magical wisps of Ireland in his voice, he smiled with that perfectly sculpted mouth. “Did you manage a midday meal, Lieutenant?”

“I had some rat soup.”

Eyebrows as dark as his mane of black silk lifted. “How adventurous of you.”

“I’d rather have pizza. Anyway, I need an expert consultant, civilian—with a specialty in business. Big business. Mergers specifically.”

“You’re on the bombing at Quantum.” His smile faded. “Twelve dead at last count. Is Willimina Karson still living?”

“She was when I left the hospital. In a coma, critical, but among the living. You know her?”

“Only a bit. I knew Derrick Pearson a bit more, but not well. Still, I’m sorry for it all. A disgruntled employee who snapped is the line coming through the reports. I take it that’s not altogether accurate?”

“Not even close. Can you carve out time tonight? It might take a while.”

“I can, and always will. But I might be able to do better. I need an hour or so yet, but after that I can come to you at Central. Or wherever you may be.”

“Likely here at this stage. I’d appreciate it. I can’t get the meat when I don’t understand the . . . menu,” she decided.

“Then I’ll come to you when I finish up. Meanwhile, see if you can get my cop something more appealing than rat soup.”