Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(62)

“It’s what plays. I think he took what he’d come for. The electronics, anything that linked him and his partner to Banks. And the artwork.”

Taking her seat, Peabody spitballed back. “Banks owned a gallery, worked with artists. Maybe one of the killers is an artist, or connected to one. He could be the artist, and wanted his own work back.”

“Keep that in mind when you work on the list. Detective Carmichael, Santiago, I’ve got Baxter and Trueheart in the field. Next DB’s yours.”

Eve went back into her office, locked the door. The trouble with working in a small space, she thought as she glanced around, was the limited hidey-holes. But for this project, she’d use that to her advantage.

She got out the candy bar she’d brought from home, stood on her desk to attach it to the inside of a ceiling tile. An easy find, oh yeah, but . . .

She fastened a button alarm, carefully, so carefully, to the joint of the tile. Lift that sucker a fraction, and the shrieking whistle should scare the unholy crap out of the thief even as its blue dye exploded all over the fucker’s face.

Satisfied, looking forward to retribution, she jumped down, unlocked her door.

Armed with more coffee, she settled down to work on her half of the list.

She got a solid ninety minutes in, shifting several names to what she considered a secondary list: low probability. And a third list she termed possible.

That left her with more than sixty as most likely.

Still too many, but they’d set up interviews and get some face-to-face.

She reread the tox report on Banks, who’d been flying high on wine, Erotica, and Zoner when he’d wandered like an idiot into Central Park at three in the morning.

She’d eliminated the delivery girl who’d brought Paul Rogan muffins, his driver (though no car service utilized on the day of the bombing) as connected.

That left her more than sixty to interview, and a sexy artist chick who might, potentially, identify a missing piece of art.

She grabbed her ’link when it signaled, saw Harvo on the readout.

“Give me a name.”

“Hi back.” Harvo’s hair, currently short, spiked into lethal points and blazing orange threatened to melt the screen.

“Hi. Give me a name.”

“Delores Larga Markin. Want the rest?”

“Whatever you’ve got.”

“Being me, I got it all.” A heart-shaped blue stone winked on the left side of Harvo’s nose as she turned to read from her own screen. “Female—and a natural redhead—age twenty-eight. Sending you her address and contact info now. She’s the younger of two daughters. Mom’s Carlotta Larga, empress of footwear.”

“Footwear has an empress?”

“You’ve probably worn her seeing as you married the sexy rich guy. I’ve got a pair of the knockoffs myself. Anyhoo, the empress has been married to Phillipe Larga for a zillion years. One marriage, only marriage for both. The daughter—our redhead—is also a designer for Larga’s secondary line, Alores, named for both daughters, Alora and Delores. They’re all stupid rich. The redhead’s been married to Hugo Markin, a scion—frosty word scion—of Roger Markin, the casino king for a couple years.”

“Gambling,” Eve mused aloud.

“Roll those dice,” Harvo said cheerfully. “Spin that wheel. Obviously if redheaded Delores lost her hair of intimacy in your dead guy’s hair of intimacy, they were having intimacy.”

“Obviously. Thanks for the quick work.”

“Hey, this was breezy. Next time give me a challenge.”

“I’ll work on it.”

She clicked off, started a run on the redhead and the scion. Then picked up another tag, this one from Trueheart.

“Sir. Baxter’s still with Ms. Kelsi. She can’t be absolutely sure, but she thinks the missing artwork might be from one of three artists.”

“Three?”

“She thinks—again, not a hundred percent—Banks took those three off the books. We took her back to Banks’s apartment for another on-site look. None of them are here at the crime scene. She needs to get back to the gallery, check there, but she’s pretty sure it’s one of these three. Angelo Richie, Selma Witt, Simon Fent. All the art in that area of the crime scene are what she calls, ah, figure studies.”

“Naked people.”

“Yes, sir. And black-and-white studies, like charcoal or pencil drawings and that sort of thing. She knows these three artists used that, ah, form and medium for some of their work.”

“Take her back to the gallery, see if she can pinpoint. And get me more data on whoever she pinpoints. All three, if that’s the closest she gets. I want locations and contact info on the artists asap.”

“Yes, sir.”

Something there, she thought when she clicked off. Something. And she’d pull that line as soon as she finished pulling the one on the Markins.

After finishing a run on both, she got up, grabbed her coat. “Peabody,” she said as she swung through the bullpen. “With me.”

Coat in hand, scarf already winding, Peabody hustled to catch up. “I’ve got ten dropped down to the bottom of the list. I get why you had them on there, but—”

“That’s on hold. Harvo ID’d the redhead.”