Vendetta in Death (In Death #49)(90)

Residence in New York, second home on Grand Cayman, and a recently purchased flat in Paris.

Cofounder and CEO of Lodestar Corporation, a company used for promoting events—concerts, major fundraisers and auctions, sports both live and online.

His listed net worth hit nine figures.

Toggling back out of curiosity, she noted his ex-wife barely made six. While her employment data listed her as a VP of marketing with Lodestar for twenty-six years—with two breaks for professional mother status—it now listed her as an administrative assistant, marketing in a smaller firm, for a fraction of the pay.

“Yeah, he screwed you over, didn’t he, Sherri?”

She tagged Lodestar, went through a frustrating runaround to glean only that Mr. Brinkman was out of town and unavailable.

She rose, paced the confines of her office, kicked her desk.

Tagged Roarke.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant.”

“Is it? Already? Shit. Do you know Linus Brinkman of Lodestar?”

“More or less—more less. We’ve met.”

“How about you put on your expert consultant, civilian, hat, contact his office, and find out where he is and when he’s due back? His assistant has assistants and nobody will tell me.”

“I’ll do that if you make time to eat some sort of lunch.”

“Well for … fine. Just tag me back or text if you get the info. Thanks.”

She wasn’t hungry, she thought, but the rest of her day equaled packed. She didn’t want to make time to eat something, and doubted she’d be able to anyway.

But she could fix it. He had said “some sort” of lunch. She figured a candy bar fit that criteria.

She locked her door, dug the remote out of her desk to turn off the blue dye trap she’d laid for the infamous Candy Thief. After climbing on the desk, she carefully eased up the ceiling tile.

And stared at the empty space.

“Come on!” She dragged a mini light out of her pocket, shined it inside.

Nothing.

“Son of a fucking sneaky bitch!”

Not a sign of the dye—and there should’ve been. So the Candy Thief used a remote, too. Probably a scanner first, which warned of the trap.

She jumped down, scowled up at the tile. Then jammed her hands in her pockets.

She had to admit—hated to, but had to—it was pretty damn impressive.

She unlocked her door, stalked out to the bullpen. Jenkinson and his tie were back—and dear God, this one sported rainbows obviously generated in a nuclear reactor. So were Reineke and his socks, but she thanked the patron saint of vision she couldn’t currently see them.

Santiago and his hat had rolled over to Carmichael’s desk, where they held an intense conversation. Eve figured it involved an active case or another stupid bet.

Since Baxter and Trueheart were missing, she assumed they’d caught one.

Peabody looked busy with a report.

“This isn’t over,” Eve announced. Activity stopped, heads turned. “Believe me, it’s not over.”

After stalking back to her office, she gave the ceiling tile another scowl. She’d think of something else. Oh yeah, she would.

Her ’link signaled a text.

Brinkman is in Nevada—Vegas—completing some business. He’s arriving in a company shuttle at Startack Transpo Station, private dock, at half-three. Where he will be met by his regular driver and car service. Is expected to check in to the office, but go straight home. He has a black-tie event this evening, and has bookings for a massage, with his stylist, in his home beginning at half-four.

You’re welcome. Eat.



“Okay, okay, that’s good.” Now she scowled at her AC, then turned back as she heard the brisk clicks of heels heading for her office.

It didn’t surprise her to see Mira, or to see her looking pretty as spring in a suit of soft blue.

“I didn’t mean for you to have to squeeze this into your day,” Eve began.

“Not such a squeeze. I’m heading out for a lunch meeting—with Natalia Zula—so I have a few minutes first. And I wanted to ask you if you’re bucking for my job.”

“What?”

With a smile, Mira came the rest of the way in, took a scan of the board. “Your profile of Darla Pettigrew is very astute. Your correlation to her relationship with her grandmother, what her own ambitions, emotional development, expectation may have been, may be through that relationship, strikes as accurate.”

Mira eased a hip on the corner of Eve’s desk. “Your summation there, and theory, lean heavily on your belief she’s killed. How confident are you that’s the case?”

“I’ve run probability scans that—”

“No, not what a probability scan calculates. How confident are you?”

“Ninety-five percent. I’d say a hundred, but there’s always a chance I’m wrong, and I have to factor that in.”

As she spoke, Eve turned to her board, hooked her thumbs in her belt loops, studied Darla’s photo.

“I have to factor in that she buzzed for me right off. Straight off, and I can’t shake it. So because I’ve looked at her from the start, that could influence the rest.”

“I’d love a chance to speak with her, evaluate her myself.”