Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(31)

She scrolled down a bit. “Banks is fourth generation moolah. One of the Banks Information and Entertainment titans. BI&E does media, vids, home screen, digital, live theater. Just as an aside, fyi, The Icove Agenda is up against their blockbuster, Five Secrets, for best picture.”

Eve only grunted.

“Jordan Banks has residences here in New York—Upper West—and a beach place in the Hamptons. His ex-wife bought him out of their place in London when they split. He also owns a yacht, often spends part of his summer on the Med. Nice work if you can get it.”

“What work?”

“Exactly,” Peabody said. “He owns an art gallery—called the Banks Gallery—again, Upper West. His official data says he’s worth one-point-two billion. But.”

“What’s the but?” Eve aske as she headed back to Central.

“The gossip pages tell a different story. Like, his ex-wife paid him handsomely to shake him loose. He rents out the beach house, and the art gallery’s barely hanging on as Banks ran it into the red. He, like, flits. Party to party, woman to woman—usually looking for a profit angle. Unlike his two siblings, his cousins, and the older generations, he doesn’t actually put any real time into the family business, and gets away with that, drawing an income from same, as he’s more trouble than he’s worth.”

“Gossip-wise, they pay him to keep him out of their hair,” Eve concluded.

“That’s my read,” Peabody confirmed. “He’s probably got less than half of what he puts on his official data, which is still a lot of the moolah. But his lifestyle and personal habits require more, I guess.”

“I’ll pay him a visit before I go home. Take Roarke with me,” Eve decided. “He’s good for intimidating phony rich bastards.”

She pulled into the garage, checked the time. “Okay, you can take your share home, wait it out for McNab, whichever works. I’m going to write this up, grab Roarke, and take a swing at Banks.”

“I’ll write it up,” Peabody offered. “You can probably grab Roarke quicker than I can McNab.”

“Fine. Anything fresh, tag me. I’m with Banks, then working from home.”

Eve sat where she was when Peabody left, sent Roarke a text.

In the garage if you’re done.

Under a minute later: I can be. Ten minutes.

She sat, started to review her notes, then sighed. She had ten minutes to wait. She might as well get it over with. She contacted Nadine, who’d tried to contact her a half dozen times during the day.

“At last!” Nadine’s camera-ready face filled Eve’s dash screen. “I need a one-on-one about this morning’s bombing.”

“Not going to happen. I’m in the middle of it.”

“I can be fast,” the dogged on-air reporter pressed.

“Not fast enough. I’m heading back into the field. I can confirm the NYPSD investigation considers Paul Rogan a victim.”

“Will you confirm or deny terrorism?”

“Paul Rogan was not a terrorist or affiliated with any terrorist organization. I can confirm that he and his family were tortured and held against their will by two unidentified subjects for many hours, and the NYPSD is actively investigating.”

“How was he targeted? What were their demands? How—”

“I’m not going to give you any more at this time, Nadine. It’s a touchy business. I’ve got something unrelated to ask you.”

Nadine’s cat-green eyes sharpened. “So, you get to ask me, but—”

“Yeah, I get to ask you if—and it’s if—I can spring Peabody and McNab for this Hollywood thing, can you fix it for them to go?”

“Absolutely. It’s already fixed. And you and Roarke—”

“Not going to do it, but if I can cut Peabody some time, and Feeney can cut McNab the same, I will and he will.”

“I’ve already got the transpo, and they’re welcome. I have a suite with room for them, so they’re welcome there. They have seats reserved in my section for the awards. They just need the duds.”

“Solid. When do I have to let you know?”

“I’m leaving Friday, I hope by early afternoon.”

“Then I’ll get back to you on it.”

“I wish you’d come. Win or lose, it’s a moment.”

“I’ll watch on-screen. So . . . The Red Horse book. It’s good.”

Eyes narrowed, suspiciously. “You finished it?”

“Nearly, and it’s good. It’s—hell, what do I know—it’s maybe even better than the Icove book.”

Now Nadine’s clever eyes closed a moment. “I wanted it to be. It matters what you think.”

“It shouldn’t, but since it does, good work and all that.”

“It matters,” Nadine repeated. “And since we’re on it, the director and the cast have signed on for the vid. Well, they’re casting another Peabody, because, you know, dead actor—but everybody else is on board. They’re already asking for a third—to make it a kind of trilogy. I’m trying to decide which case to spring from.”

“Don’t ask me. And don’t say anything to Peabody about maybe going out to this Oscar deal. She’ll nag the crap out of me with silence and puppy eyes.”