Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(79)

“What about all the planets and their satellites you’re scheduled to buy?”

“Word is they’ll still be there next week. If not? Well, look at the money you’ll have saved me.”

Eve squeezed his hands, hard. “She’ll blubber again.”

“I won’t. And there’s a win for you.”

“Okay.” She moved into him. “But I’m going to work the hell out of the ass she’s obsessed with before she leaves.” Turning, she looked back at her board. “And if we pin their asses, so much the better.”

“Tell her that,” he suggested. “Send her a memo, take the weight off altogether. You’ll both work clearer.”

“I guess we would. I’ll do that, then I’ve got to write a couple reports, update my board.”

“I believe I’ll renew acquaintance with a few sick bastards I know in the art world. And since you’ve no intention of finishing your cop beer as you’ll go for coffee, I’ll take it with me.”

She got the coffee, composed the memo.

From: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve

To: Peabody, Detective, Delia

Re: Official Leave

This confirms the leave previously discussed and approved. You are granted official leave of seventy-two hours, commencing Friday at sixteen hundred hours. I will work with my expert consultant, civilian, during that period on current investigations, and any other official business that may ensue during said period.

That’s it.

Between this time and the commencement of official leave, be prepared to work your ass off. If I hear any shit about my decision and directive, I will kick whatever is left of your ass.



And done, Eve thought, began outlining reports.

It took twenty minutes for Peabody’s response, during which time, Eve concluded, her partner had struggled with righteous objections, resolved herself, and blubbered.

From: Peabody, Detective Delia

To: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve

Re: Official Leave

Sir. I’m grateful to you for granting this leave, and to the expert consultant, civilian, for making said leave possible during the course of a challenging investigation. If circumstances require this leave to be rescinded, I am prepared to return to duty at any time during the seventy-two hours.

I am fully prepared to work my ass off until it’s as skinny as yours. (I wish.)

Thank you.



She had to smile, then rose to update her board.

She stood back, studying the new faces as Roarke came in.

“I had one faint glimmer,” he began.

“I’ll take faint glimmer.”

“A contact with—we’ll stick with sick bastard for now—indicates he received a query several weeks ago. On the dark web, which the sick bastard frequents.”

“About Richie’s paintings?”

“About a hypothetical. If the artist of a certain painting, worth an estimated amount, were to die a sudden and tragic death with much of his work destroyed in this tragedy, would the sick bastard be interested in bidding on the painting.”

“That’s pretty damn vague. Yet specific.”

“My contact claims he asked for more specifics—after all, if he didn’t know the artist in question or the painting, he couldn’t speculate. However, several others expressed some interest.”

“It’s a sick bastard world.”

“And yet, without sick bastards where would we be? The upshot, for the moment, is the hypothetical refused specifics, instead boasting he’d provide them in the spring. Advising the sick bastards to prepare for bidding.”

“Weeks ago. So they knew about Richie, knew about the plans for the opening, likely had Denby selected as the trigger.” She circled. “That, the showing and all of the hype around it, would have been set. A date, specific.”

“For marketing, and the hyping, to give Richie time to finish work, to select it. Yes. And no, the meeting for the merger wouldn’t have been set weeks ago. It would have been in the works, certainly. But the very definite date and time wouldn’t have been set until closer to that date and time.”

“They ended up having to go back-to-back. Probably wasn’t their first choice, but to cash in on both, they had to go with the one, two. Still stupid.”

When Roarke took the coffee from her hand to drink it himself, she only scowled a little. She figured she owed him.

“You know the smarter, easier, more direct way to blow up the artist and most of his work? You send Denby to his studio, not to the Salon.”

“Hmm. You know, you’re right about that,” Roarke agreed. “Except, of course, they wouldn’t have been able to steal several canvases.”

“That tells me they don’t, or didn’t, have enough scratch to buy up paintings. They had it for the stocks, but not for the paintings. And they could—what you called—do the margin thing on the stocks. They didn’t have a big hunk of money for stocks and paintings, so they had to do it the stupid way.”

“Stupid, but effective,” he pointed out.

“It still tells me they don’t just want money. They need it. Not saying it’s not down to basic greed, but to gamble on these deals, they had a relatively small stake. They had to steal the paintings. And they knew they were going to weeks before the opening. Weeks before the meeting at Quantum was set in stone.”