Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(72)

“They said you were down here.”

“And they said EDD was here. They didn’t say the captain.”

His droopy eyes hardened. “I wanted to handle this one myself. It’s pissing me off.”

“Get in line.”

“Remoted it,” he told her. “In layers, just like before. System wasn’t as high-end as the last one, but it’s damn good. Good toys is what they’ve got, Dallas. They paid for good toys and somebody who knows how to modify and enhance them. Or they’ve got the skills to build the toys.”

“Maybe, maybe they’ve got the skills, but they’re not B and E pros. Not thieves, professionally.” She moved with him and Peabody through the house. “Easy valuables, including jewelry. Upstairs you’ve got suitcases already packed, and some things left out probably going in last minute. Safe upstairs in the master? Better jewelry and cash inside.”

“Was it open?” he asked her.

“No. I’m getting pretty good at opening safes, so I did. It’s just a glorified lockbox. They spent more on art, from the looks of it, than shiny bits, but there were some in there. And the cash. Not thieves,” she repeated.

“They like scaring and hurting people,” Peabody put in. “Thieves just want to get in, score, get out. They like terrifying a family, and making the father the sacrifice.”

Frowning, Eve turned to her. “‘Sacrifice’?”

“He is, isn’t he? He’s their human bomb.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” She paced the living area. Photographs, a few toys, a lot of art. “Flip that. He’s the hero. Saves his family. He’s the hero who sacrifices himself. Maybe it’s a Mira thing, but . . . Maybe one or both of them had a father or authority figure who sacrificed himself.”

“Or didn’t,” Feeney added.

“Or didn’t. Let’s look at Markin’s military relatives’ records. Could be. We’re going back to the lists. If not Markin, they’re on the board. At least one of them’s on the board. Let’s hunt these fuckers down before they do this to another family.”

“You really think they’d do it again?”

“They like it, remember?” Feeney answered Peabody.

“Add to it, they must have had at least one contingency. If they couldn’t torture Rogan and Denby into it, they’d have another ready to go.”

“We’ll take their e’s in,” Feeney said. “We’ll see if we can get a cross-match on anyone who’s on the first target. Anything that crosses, we’ll find it.”

“They knew enough about both of them to play the game. Paths crossed somewhere.”

Stock market, business mergers, art, military, explosives, Eve thought as she drove to Angelo Richie’s loft. Where was the line that ran through them all, connecting them?

“Just to get on and off it,” Peabody said, “with this second hit, I understand I can’t take off for the awards. McNab, either. We need to stick on this.”

“We’re not going there yet.”

“I just want to say the job comes first. So . . . I’m going to check in with Baxter, get the status on the wife and kid.”

“Do that.” She wasn’t going to think about it, Eve determined. Personal issues had to wait. Because, yes, the job comes first.

“Banks was a link,” she said, more to herself than to Peabody. “His relationship with Karson on the first, his connection to Richie’s work on the second. That makes him the linchpin on both. What else does he connect to?”

“The wife’s stable,” Peabody announced. “So’s the fetus. They’re keeping her on hospital bed rest for the next twenty-four. The kid’s fine,” she continued. “The wife’s parents have him. Baxter and Trueheart were able to get statements, and they’re on their way to Central to report.”

“Give them Richie’s address, have them head there instead. Gambling. Another link—Banks to Markin. It’s all gambling—stock market, art world. Maybe the next is more direct.”

“Blow up a casino?”

“I don’t know what that gets you.” Eve, hunting for a parking space, felt both shock and glee at spotting one nearly in front of Richie’s building.

Maybe it was a loading zone, but she snagged it.

“A competitor’s?” she continued. “Still, that’s not quick profit in your pocket. And first, we need a back check on people who bought Richie’s work, so we need the galleries or art brokers, whatever else he used to market them.”

She stepped onto the sidewalk, studied the squat, square block of the building.

It sat back from the sidewalk with a scrubby patch of winter-yellow grass fronting it. The building itself—four stories—appeared to be built of cinder blocks painted a quiet green. Some old factory, she assumed, repurposed to lofts and sturdy enough to have survived the Urbans.

As they started over a concrete walkway, Peabody considered, “If he went to Italy to live and work for a stretch . . .”

“Yeah.” Eve could feel the headache coming on as they walked to the steel entrance doors. “It means dealing internationally, and that’s going to slow it all down. Roarke has one of the paintings. Richie’s.”