Forgotten in Death(31)

“Skill is skill, after all, Lieutenant. And in four minutes, thirty-three seconds, the system rebooted. She’d already taken the painting, rolled the canvas into her bag, and walked out. Rebooted the system from a safe distance, and very likely went directly to the client.”

“Client.” This time Eve’s breath hissed out. “That’s a name for it.”

“It’s unlikely they took the Monet to hang it in their own parlor, now, isn’t it? So client works well enough.”

“Have they picked the twins up?”

“That’s where more clever comes into it. Irina Hobbs put in for her two-weeks vacation months ago. Beginning two days after the heist. Not enough time for the long arm of the law to work it all out, and just enough for her to be cleared, as she was.”

“They’re in the wind.” She gave him a hard look. “You’re glad they got away with it.”

“It’s difficult for such as me not to admire their ingenuity, taste, and teamwork. And they’re but twenty-four. Young for all this, and long gone by now.”

“So’s a painting worth millions of millions.”

“I think not, as the client wasn’t half so clever as they. He took a vid of it hanging in his private room in his country home upstate. We ran a search for it, as sometimes people are just that stupid and vain. I imagine the investigators are knocking on—or more likely knocking down—his door right now.”

“Good, and maybe he’ll lead them to the twins.”

Roarke just patted her hand. “You can dream, darling.”

She hit vertical, did an airborne one-eighty, and dropped into a barely adequate parking spot.

Roarke didn’t blink.

Eve shifted. “They’ll do it again.”

“Possibly. Probably,” he conceded. “Though they’ll have more than enough to live on, quite handsomely, for a very long time. Still, with that talent … they’ll come to miss the rush of it.”

“Like you.”

“I get my rush in different ways these days.” He leaned over, kissed her.

Since she couldn’t argue with that, she got out of the car. “Plumber’s half a block down. Carmine Delgato,” she continued as he joined her on the sidewalk. “Age fifty-eight, employed by Singer for twenty-two years, moved up to head guy eight years ago. Married, twenty-six years, Angelina Delgato. Three offspring, twenty-five, twenty-three, twenty.”

She paused in front of a white-brick townhome with a three-step stoop, flowers in pots, a solid security system.

“Unclogging sinks pays,” she observed.

“It’s a bit more than that, but it does, yes.”

“When he stayed unavailable all day, I looked a little deeper. He likes to gamble, and he doesn’t hit often. He likes the horses, but they don’t seem to like him. Oldest kid’s in law school—that costs. Middle one’s in grad school, looking for an MBA—that costs. Youngest is in college.”

“So some financial squeezes. The spouse?”

“Manages an upscale home decor place. She’s got twenty in—and it looked to me like she opened her own account about five years ago. She’s got herself a nice nest egg.”

“I assume you’ll be taking a hard look here.”

“Hard enough. He has access, he gambles, he’s got a lot of bills to pay. So you order more than you need, or fake an invoice, and the order’s for cheaper material and you pocket the change. Or you just slip some material or equipment off-site when no one’s there.”

She shrugged. “Or he’s just a hardworking guy who likes to bet on the horses.”

She walked up to the door, pushed the buzzer. Glanced at Roarke. “We can have some fine-ish dining and a good bottle of red when we get home.”

“That we can.”

“And you could, after that, try to find Alva Quirk.”

“I can—and I did take a couple more steps there after lunch. I haven’t yet…”

He trailed off as the door opened.

The woman who answered wore a trim black suit. Her hair, the color of cranberries, swept back in wings from a face dominated by lips the same color as the hair.

As her feet were bare, Eve judged she’d just gotten home from work—suit, full makeup—and kicked shoes off feet she’d likely been on most of the day.

“Mrs. Delgato.” Eve held up her badge. “Lieutenant Dallas, NYPSD, and my consultant. Is your husband at home?”

Angelina Delgato slapped one hand on her hip. “What’s that son of a bitch done?”

“Ah—”

“Cops coming to my door now, and after I put in eight hours on my feet? Doesn’t surprise me one damn bit.”

“I’d like to speak to him, ma’am, that’s all.”

“Bull hockey! Cops at my door! Well, he’s not here, is he? And he won’t be here because I kicked his stupid, lying ass out eight months ago. Nine. Almost nine.”

“You’re separated?”

“Damn right we are, because I’ve had enough. Twenty-six years, and he promises no more gambling. But does he stop? Hell to the hell no, he doesn’t stop.”

She was winding up, Eve saw, and would keep right on winding.