Fantasy in Death (In Death #30)(19)

“That’s pretty uptown for a sex con.”

“The mark’s got a rich husband. So, we’ll check it out, but it rings. He’s also living with yet another mark when he’s not doing the walking mouth. They pay his freight, and he digs into their business, and sells the data to interested parties. I’ve got the interested party on this one.”

She sipped coffee, thinking of the young, stupid Roland, the young, naive Bart. “I don’t think Dubrosky got into Bart’s and sliced him up. He might snag a fingernail or get spatter in his perfect hair. But he’s going over for the rest. And if we pin the murder on the buyer, we may be able to slap him with accessory. He’s earned a nice long stretch in a very small cage.”

“You really didn’t like him.”

“I really didn’t. But the point is, if he hadn’t used the lovestruck Roland for gain, maybe Bart Minnock would still be in one piece. You take the two women he was juggling along with Roland. I want to get some data on Lane DuVaugne of Synch Entertainment before we talk to him.”

Peabody looked into her coffee mug. “They’re going to be pissed.”

“Oh yeah. You get the fun stuff.” She gave Peabody the names and contact information. “Be discreet,” she added. “Britt Casey’s married. She probably deserves a kick in the ass, but if she’s as dumb as Roland, I’m inclined to cut her a break and try to keep her husband out of it.”

“I’ll be the soul. If this guy was banging three marks, how’d he have time for anything else?”

“Apparently, it’s just a matter of good time management.”

“I wonder what supplements he takes, or if he has a special diet.”

“I’ll be sure to ask next time we speak. Out.”

Eve sat to begin runs on both DuVaugne and the company, and while the data began to screen, followed a hunch.

Once again Roarke answered directly. “Lieutenant.”

“Are you in the house?”

“I am, yes. In EDD.”

“What can you tell me, off the top, about a Lane DuVaugne and Synch Entertainment.”

“I’ll come down.”

“You don’t have to—” she began, but she was talking to empty air.

“Okay then.”

She started with DuVaugne. The fifty-nine-year-old vice president was on wife two, who—no surprise—clocked in at twenty-eight years younger. They based their three-year marriage on the Upper East Side, with additional housing in Belize and the Italian Riviera. The current wife was a former lingerie model.

Men were so simple, really.

He’d held his position at Synch for sixteen years, and pulled in a hefty twenty-two million, before bonuses, annually.

He had no criminal record.

“We’re about to change that.”

What change do you wish to implement? The computer asked.

“Nothing. None. A person can’t even talk to herself around here.”

She did a quick scan on the company. It had been around nearly as long as DuVaugne had been alive, developing, manufacturing, and distributing games and game systems. Offices and plants worldwide. She frowned as she read the cities, backtracked through company history, tried to wade her way through the official financial and employment data.

She hated to admit it, but she felt some relief when Roarke walked in. Then he shut the door.

“Uh-oh.”

“I simply prefer not to broadcast my business.”

“Your business crosses with Synch?”

“Not at the moment. Where’s your candy?”

“What candy?”

He gave her a look. “I know very well you hide candy in here. I need a boost. Give it over.”

Her frown deepened, and she tracked her gaze toward the door. “Don’t let anybody come in. It’s a damn good hiding place.”

“You know, you could easily rig a cam in here, and catch whoever’s lifting your stash in the act.”

“One day I’ll catch the candy thief, but it’ll be by guile and wit, not technology. It’s a matter of pride and principle now.”

She took a tool from her desk, then squatted in front of her recycler. After a few twists, she removed the facing and pulled an evidence bag from the back.

“Your guile and wit contest causes you to keep candy in the recycler, with the trash?”

“It’s sealed.” She broke the seal with a little pop and whoosh to prove it, then took out one of three chocolate bars. She tossed it to him, then bagged the remaining two with a fresh seal before hiding them again. She glanced back to see him studying the candy.

“If you’re going to be so dainty give it back.”

“There was a time I rooted through alley garbage for food, without a thought. Things change.” He unwrapped the candy, took a bite. “But apparently not that much.”

She replaced the tool, then stood, hands on hips, studying the recycler for any signs of tampering. “Okay. Still good.”

“And a demonstration of true love if I ever saw one.” He brushed a hand over her tousled cap of brown hair, then tapped a finger on the dent of her chin before touching his lips to hers. “Better than chocolate.”

The shadows had lifted, she noted. Work could do that—focus and channel grief and regret. “Synch Entertainment.”