Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(70)

“I see.”

“I bet you do. What’s the point of blowing up an artist and a bunch of his paintings? A artist I’m told was about to hit it big?”

Roarke shifted his gaze back, met her eyes. “You’re a quick study, Lieutenant. What would you name as motive?”

“Leverage.”

“Exactly. A young, very promising artist dies violently and tragically before his first major American opening. And much of his work dies with him.”

“His surviving work shoots up in value,” she finished.

“It certainly will. Anyone who bought—or stole—any of his previous work would see a substantial return on the investment.”

“The one they stole? That’s a bonus point. This was planned well before they killed Banks.”

“No doubt of that.” He took her hand again. “I’ll check on that system for you.”

He started to step away, but her comm signaled. “Dallas. When?” She listened, eyes narrowing. “How bad is the wife? Yeah, got it. Have EDD check every damn thing. Have Child Services hang with the kid until. Stick with them, Baxter.”

She shoved the comm back in her pocket. “Kid was sedated, lightly.” She turned to include the detectives in the update. “Unharmed, a little dehydrated, scared shitless. Wife took a beating—face mostly. They broke two of her fingers. She’s about twelve and a half weeks pregnant.”

“Ah, fuck that,” Santiago said and kicked the bottom of the arch.

“MTs say she’s stable, but they’re taking her in for tests, more fluids, whatever they do. Kid was restrained to the bed in his room. The wife in a utility area. Home invasion happened early Tuesday morning. The wife thinks about four, four-thirty.”

“That’s fast work,” Roarke added.

“Yeah, terrorize Rogan into blowing up the Quantum meeting Monday morning, collect the winnings, most likely. Then move on Banks who’s stupid enough to put a target on his back. Steal the painting and electronics and/or records that connect you, head over to the next mark and get to work.”

She circled the room. “Banks wasn’t planned, but they fit him in. They had to deal with him before they moved to the next mark. Cut off that loose end first—and get the bonus point.”

The smell of death was everywhere, lives snuffed out in an instant.

“Eighteen people now, but it’s not about racking up the body count. If that interested them, they’d have waited and had Denby strapped up tonight when the place was full of art lovers.”

She looked at the charred remains. “It’s not about people at all. It’s about profit. Nothing else. Peabody, let’s talk to the witnesses. Carmichael, Santiago, stick for Salazar.”

They spoke to the assistant first, who shook and wept and added little. Peabody arranged for her to tag her roommate and to be transported home.

Eve stepped into the back office for the next round. “If I could speak to you next, Ms. Aceti.”

“I’m not leaving Joe.” She sat beside him, the hand of her uninjured arm clutching his. Her broken arm splinted with a temporary cast and resting in a sling. “I won’t.”

“All right. We’ll talk right here, all of us.” She sat across from them. The woman had some facial nicks, a few tears and scorch marks on her shirt and trousers. She’d tied her hair—long enough to hit her waist with copper streaks through inky black—back from a face ivory pale with shock. Her deep-set brown eyes blazed against it.

Her partner sat, slumped, dazed, eyes swollen from weeping. His skin, nearly the color of the woman’s streaks, made Eve think of Leonardo. He wore his hair in dozens of intricate braids.

His black turtleneck and silver-studded black jeans smelled of smoke.

“I know this is a difficult time, and again, I’m sorry for your loss.” Eve glanced over briefly as Peabody came in, sat. “We have to ask questions.”

“I have questions,” Aceti said with an edge of fury. “I have questions, too. And I’m telling you right now, Wayne would never, never do this unless . . . We’ve all known each other since college. We loved each other, do you understand?”

“I do. We—”

“It’s like what happened at Quantum. It’s all over the screen about somebody hurting that man’s family, threatening them until he—did what he did. It’s the same! I need to know about Zelda and Evan. I won’t tell you a goddamn thing until you tell us about Zelda and Evan. She’s pregnant.”

Aceti’s lips trembled. “She’s pregnant.”

“And she’s stable. The MTs treated her, and she’s been taken to the hospital.”

“The baby?”

“As far as I know she and the baby are stable.”

“Evan. He’s only five.”

“He wasn’t hurt. Scared, but not hurt. You need to talk to me, both of you.”

“They were supposed to leave yesterday morning. They were supposed to be away until later today. We had everything under control here for tonight. And they were taking Evan to Disney for an overnight treat, and to tell him he was going to have a baby brother or sister. They didn’t know which yet. They hadn’t told anyone else but me and Joe, and their parents. They wanted to tell Evan first. We thought they were away, having fun, and all the time, they must have . . .”