Indulgence in Death (In Death #31)(38)

McNab blinked, shrugged. “Okay.”

“Enhance.”

She narrowed her eyes. “They’re—what do you call them—loafers. Dark brown, look expensive. Let’s get a make on them.”

“Taught her everything she knows,” Feeney said to Roarke. “Nice play.”

“He likes good shoes,” Eve continued, “and he can afford them. Why wear expensive shoes to a murder at an amusement park?”

“Not everyone is as dismissive of good footwear as you, darling.”

She turned a beady eye on Roarke. “No darlings from civilians. Sneaks or skids make more sense. You can move faster if you have to. It’s Coney freaking Island. It’s a playground. But he wears good shoes. He’s vain, and he likes expensive, exclusive. Or maybe he’s just used to them. He’s going to kill her, but he wants her to notice he’s got good taste and the dough to float it.

“Keep at it,” she told McNab. “I need a minute with you.” She crooked a finger at Roarke as she walked out.

When he’d followed her out, Roarke wrapped a light grip around the finger she’d crooked. “Try to remember I’m your husband, not a subordinate.”

“Jeez, sorry. If I’d thought of you as a subordinate I’d probably have told you to get your ass out here. Or words to that effect.”

“Most likely true. Still.” He gave her finger a quick squeeze. “Let’s have a walk. I’m hungry.”

“I don’t—”

“If I have to settle for something from the pitiful vending choices around here you can walk and talk.”

“Fine, fine, fine.” She shoved her hands in her pockets as he turned down a corridor toward the pitiful vending choices. “While you’re at it, remember you’re the one who jumped on board with this.”

“I’m well aware.” He stood in front of one of the machines, scowling at the offerings. “I suppose the crisps are the safest.”

“Just use my code. It’s—”

“I know what your code is.” He ordered five bags.

“Jesus, I guess you are hungry.”

“You’re having one, and you’ll toss one to Peabody. The others are for my lab mates.”

While the machine, which was never quite so cooperative with her, jingled out the data on the soy chips, Roarke studied her. “What do you need?”

“I just have a couple questions. Does your control-the-global-economy corps have insurance against hacking and fraud?”

“Of course.”

“Yeah, so if Sweet or Urich worked for you, and this went down, you’d be covered.”

“There’d be an investigation, which would take time, and possibly some legal wrangling, but yes. That’s good,” he added as he gathered up the bags. “I hadn’t gotten that far yet.”

“Makes you the subordinate.”

He pinched her. “Makes me focused on the trees—or the data and imaging—rather than the forest. It would cost the companies time and some money, but it’s relatively small change. The publicity could cause more damage, but they’ll have their spinners working on that. Cooperating with the authorities, full internal investigation. And they’ll likely chop a head or two.”

“Yeah, that was Urich’s take. As emperor of all you survey, do you know or have access to the codes and passwords of your employees?”

“If you mean as head of Roarke Industries do I have full access to that data, yes.”

“Because you can out-hack the hackers, or because of your position?”

“Both. Isn’t this interesting?”

“Maybe. What do you know about Winston Cunningham Dudley the Fourth?”

“Friends call him Winnie.”

“Seriously?” She shook her head. “Do you?”

“No, but then I don’t know him, particularly. We’ve met, certainly, at charity events, that sort of thing, but don’t have anything in common.”

“You’re both really rich.”

“There’s a difference between multigenerational wealth and wealth more recently and personally acquired.”

“So he’s a f**k-headed snob?”

He laughed. “You do whittle things down. I have no idea. What I do know, and that’s more impression and passing commentary, is he seems to enjoy his privilege and socializes with his own kind. Dudley and Son is solid and run well. If you’re considering he’s gone on a murderous rampage, folding in one of his top people, I’d have to ask why would he?”

“That’s another area. I’m just trying to get a feel. What about the other company, Intelicore, and the other guy. Sylvester Bennington Moriarity the Third. And where do they come up with these names?”

“I think the fourth speaks for itself. Given our background and lineage, when we have children, we’ll have to make up impressive names. Like Bartholomew Ezekiel.”

“If we have a kid, I hope I like him better than to do that to him.”

“That would be a factor.” He turned back to the machine and ordered a citrus power drink.

“You have coffee.”

“Which is, thanks to this consultation, cold by now. I want something to wash down these crisps. I don’t know Moriarity any better than the other—I believe friends call him Sly. If memory serves, they’re both in their forties, grew up in the lifestyle one expects on that level. They play polo or squash or golf, I imagine.”