Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(95)

Eve supposed it was only natural for someone with a family antique business to fill his home with them. The generous space offered plenty of room for large tables, freestanding cabinets, fussy chairs, and sofas. A lot of gleaming wood and rich fabrics with an enormous, softly faded rug centering the space.

Like Banks’s, this unit boasted a fireplace. Silver candlestands and a tall painted vase graced the mantel over it.

Behind them a long, oval mirror, framed in more gleaming wood, reflected the room.

Most of the art showed landscapes that struck Eve as European. Sunbaked houses jogged up and down hillsides, charming cottages sprang out of woods and gardens.

He didn’t offer refreshments, but after gesturing to chairs, sat—a slender man in a white cashmere sweater and tailored black pants.

He tapped his fingers together. “What can I tell you?”

“Did you know Jordan Banks?”

“I did—slightly. We met some time ago. I’m not sure when, exactly. Maybe a year or so? At a party. We had mutual friends, it turned out. Thad and Delvinia. And somehow or other it came out we lived in the same building. New York’s really a small world. We chatted awhile. He owned an art gallery, and my business is arts and antiques, so—”

“I thought you were a day trader.”

“Oh.” His fingers tapped together again. “That’s more a hobby I enjoy. My family business is arts and antiques, so as Jordan and I had that mutual interest, we talked shop for a while, exchanged business cards.”

“Did you follow up on that?”

“‘Follow up’?”

“Connect again?”

“I did visit the Banks Gallery—his art shop—and we had a drink. His gallery focuses on current art and artists, and my interests are in older works. But we had a drink once or twice, or I might see him at a party and chat.”

“Ever been to his apartment here?”

“Yes, actually, to see his art collection, and naturally, I reciprocated. We might have been art lovers, but our tastes didn’t strike the same chord.”

“Were you at the party on Monday night hosted by your mutual friends, Thad and Delvinia?”

“No. I was sorry to miss that. I was on a road trip—only returned that evening, and much too tired to pull it together and head out to a party.”

“A road trip?”

“North. Through New York State, into New England. Antiquing—really I suppose more of a busman’s holiday.”

“How long were you gone?”

“I took a long weekend. Frankly, I wanted a little break, so I drove north.” He spread his hands, tapped his fingers back together. “No real plan other than to stop here and there, look at antique and collectible shops. I don’t, in general, do any of our buying, but I do scout now and then. Primarily our antiques come from Europe, but we do buy and sell Americana as well. You never know what treasure you might stumble on in some little shop.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Stumble on any treasures.”

“Not this time. But, as I said, it was really a busman’s holiday. An excuse to get out of the city.”

“And you got back Monday evening.”

“That’s right. I’m not sure what time. I unpacked, had a drink to unwind.”

“And then?”

He shifted, looked mildly annoyed. “I can’t tell you exactly. Took a shower, puttered about, read a little, as I recall. I went to bed early. It’s lovely to get away, but there’s nothing quite like your own bed.”

“Did you speak to anyone, let them know you were back? Answer messages that might have come in while you were away?”

“No. As I said before I was tired. I really don’t understand why you need to know all of this.”

“Jordan Banks was murdered in the early hours of Tuesday morning.”

“Yes, so I heard. What does it have to do with me?”

“You knew him. He was murdered after leaving a party of your mutual friends. These are routine questions in a murder investigation.”

“I wouldn’t know as I’ve never been questioned by the police.” His tone cooled, considerably. “Frankly, it feels intrusive.”

“I’m sure it does. Do you know Hugo Markin?”

“Hugo? Yes, I know him and Delores—his wife.”

“Willimina Karson?”

“I met her when she was involved with Jordan. I wouldn’t say I know her, but I’ve met her.”

“Paul Rogan.”

He stared into Eve’s eyes, tapped his fingertips. “No, that’s not a familiar name.”

“Wayne Denby.”

“I don’t think so. I meet a lot of people.”

“Angelo Richie.”

“No, I don’t think . . . wait. The artist. I know of him and his work. He was just killed, wasn’t he? It’s tragic.”

“For him,” Eve agreed. “For an art collector who bought his work before he started to rise—that would mean increased value. Wouldn’t it? Speaking as someone in the arts and antique business.”

He shifted again. “That’s a cold and calculating perspective.”

“But accurate?”