“I was eight, or about, and stole one when I was rummaging about in a big house in a fancy part of Dublin. People will hide valuables in their cold boxes, as if any thief worthy of the name won’t look there.”
“Freezers,” she agreed, “underwear drawers. Usually the top two. So, the steak.”
“Mick and Brian and I fried it up on a hot plate in our hideaway, and surely bolloxed that up altogether. And still, I’ve never had better, before or after.”
When she smiled, he topped off her glass. “When Summerset took me in, we managed steak a time or two, and I learned how it was meant to taste. And still, that hunk of burned meat in our little hole was ambrosia.”
“They won’t be like us. Those two,” she said with a gesture back at the board. “When you grow up hard, like we did, it can turn you mean, violent, vicious. It can warp you. Or it can make you remember the taste of something wonderful. Either way, that’s not them.”
“Mean, violent, vicious? They don’t qualify?”
“Sure, but it’s thought out, it’s calculated, it’s carefully orchestrated. Not striking out, not payback, not survival or some fucked-up version of it. They don’t have to remember. They’re going to have advantages, most likely come from decent backgrounds. I’m betting a solid education and/or training.”
Studying her, fascinated as always by her mind, its processes, he sliced a bite of steak. “Why?”
“Okay, you gamble for a trio of basic reasons. For the hell of it, which includes entertainment factor—and that means you can afford to lose, at least what you put in. Out of desperation or addiction, which usually means you lose even if you win because you’ll end up feeding it back. Or because you want more, you just want more. I lean toward the want more. At least with what I’ve got now.”
She speared a tiny potato. “I also bet you’d know about some high-stake games right here in the city.”
He cocked a brow, sipped his wine. “I may.”
“It might be a thread to tug. You own some casinos,” she continued, “but you don’t really gamble. Cards, dice, like that.”
“The house always wins, so better to be the house than a guest in it. I’ve gambled here and there. It’s a good way to while away some time, and make a bit of profit. But it was always as much for the entertainment as anything else for me, or for the insight into the other players, all of whom might serve as a mark down the line.”
“Every heist was a gamble,” she pointed out.
“True enough, but that was also a vocation.” He smiled again. “A passion. Survival at first, then a way of life, then another kind of entertainment.”
“Richard Troy gambled,” she said, referring to her father. “I can look back from this distance and realize, for him, it was as much a sickness as the drinking, as the abuse. Patrick Roarke gambled.”
Roarke nodded. “He did, and it was much the same. Our bloody-minded fathers were much the same.”
“These two aren’t like that, either. Not the types to lash out, to get shit-faced and pound on a kid. The more I think about it . . . This went so damn smooth for them. Sure it took time, some investment, involved some risk, but it was clear profit in a matter of hours once it rolled. They’re going to do it again. People just don’t quit while they’re ahead.”
“And so the house always wins,” Roarke agreed.
“Do you know of any other big mergers, major shifts in the works, something that could be used to manipulate the market?”
“There’s always something cooking somewhere.”
“I think it has to be here in New York, almost has to be. Otherwise, you have travel, more time to pull it off. You have to know a target to hit it. Would they try the same thing again? Would they risk that? Shit. I have to think.”
“Eat first.”
“Right.” She cut more steak, tried to clear her mind so it could brew on what lodged in the corners. And remembered other things, more personal things.
“Ah, anyway. I know that vid awards deal is Sunday.”
Angling his head, he lifted his wine. “You surprise me.”
“Well, I didn’t exactly know, then it came up, so I knew. And I know you like that sort of thing, but—”
“You have a case, and it’s not the sort of thing you like whatsoever.”
“Still.”
Sometimes she wished he wouldn’t be so reasonable. It brought guilt tugging. Then again, plenty of times he wasn’t even close to reasonable, and that was a pisser.
So.
“I could probably work it to have you shuttle us out there in one of your fancy deals, but the thing is . . .”
He waited, half amused, half curious while she struggled through it.
“It’s just a major pain in my ass, Roarke, the whole freaking thing. Not just the getting into some stupid outfit and having stuff slathered all over my face, and having to talk to people in stupid outfits with stuff slathered all over their face. I can handle that okay, sometimes. I do it with you, for your stuff.”
“You do, and it’s appreciated.”
“Okay, good, but this? The damn book, the vid? I’ll be doing my job, and some wit, even a suspect says, Oh hey, I read the Icove book. I loved the vid, whatever, and it’s a weird pain in my ass. It wouldn’t surprise me one damn bit to be reading some fuckhead his rights and have him say: Man, that Icove vid rocked it out.”
When he laughed, she scowled, ate more steak. “I’m serious.”
“I know it.”
“And worse? Oh, it’s worse. I’m about finished reading the Red Horse deal, because Nadine nagged the crap out of me about it. And it’s good. It’s goddamn stupid good, and I had to tell her because, friends. And even if I lied, said, Sorry, it blows, they’d publish it anyway, and make the next vid—they want a trilogy.”
She finished on a windy huff of breath, and he took a moment to choose his words.
“Darling Eve, I’m trying to be sympathetic as your distress is very clear and obviously genuine.”
“Damn straight it is.”
“But you’ve gone and made a very talented woman a friend. A true and good one, and them’s the breaks.”
“Goddamn breaks,” she muttered, and ate some more. “I’m not going to the fancy awards. Just no.”
“One must take a stand, after all.”
“She’ll probably win, just my luck.” Caught up, she brooded into her wine. “So anyway, Feeney and I hashed it out, and we’ll cut Peabody and McNab loose so they can go. They eat this stupid stuff with a spoon, and one of us should be there with Nadine, however it goes, even though she’s taking the rocker.”
He said nothing, only stood, walked around the table, drew her to her feet. And cupping her face, kissed her soft and sweet.
“A ghrá, you are a marvel.”
“I don’t—”
He kissed her again, then just gathered her in. “I love you beyond comprehension.”
“Because I’m not going to some stupid dress-up party?”
“That actually factors. Shall I arrange a shuttle for them? A suite?”
She sighed, loved him beyond comprehension because he would do just that, without hesitation. “They’ll go with Nadine and the rocker. She’s got it. I’m not saying anything yet because I won’t get dick out of Peabody once she knows she’s going.”
“Then we’d best contact Leonardo.”
Eve snuggled in. “Why?”
“Our girl needs an Oscar dress—and shoes, a bag. You could lend her the jewelry.”
Now Eve yanked back. “But—”
“He’ll come up with something for McNab that suits. There’s not much time, but I’ll wager Leonardo can make it work, especially for Peabody and McNab.”
“Jesus, they already have clothes.”
“Not to worry.” Roarke simply patted it, and her, aside. “I’ll take care of this part of it. My contribution. Why don’t you deal with the dishes, and I’ll deal with this? Then we’ll set our minds to murder.”
“Life was easier when all I had to do was think about murder.”
“Well now, you changed your spots to splotches, didn’t you?” He kissed her again, then pulled out his ’link.
She muttered to herself as she gathered up the dishes.
“Leonardo,” she heard him say. “And how are you and your girls?”
She dealt with the cleanup, a fair trade in her mind as she didn’t have to discuss fashion or accessories. By the time she got around to programming a pot of coffee, Roarke was tucking his ’link away.
“He’s happy to help, so consider it done.”
“I’m not considering it at all. Jordan Banks.”
“Consider that all but done,” Roarke said, and strolled into his office.
The thing was, Eve admitted, she could. While he entertained himself digging into Jordan Banks’s finances, Eve pulled her team’s first reports from her incoming.
She scanned terminations first, highlighted any with connections to the military and/or finance.
She noted a couple of names—former employees of one company who’d shifted to the second. Those she earmarked for a deeper run.
While Eve worked and Roarke dug, Jordan Banks had an epiphany. The bitch of a cop had told him to think—and he’d done anything but. He didn’t like being threatened or made to feel uneasy, so in his habitual way, he simply ignored the sensations and went to a party.
Cocktails, illegals, music, a little quickie with the wife of a friend in a butler’s pantry. Some laughs, some gossip. He always filed gossip away for later use. Well utilized, gossip could be profitable.
More than a little high, he closed himself in one of the bathrooms to record some of the juice in his memo book. Family squabbles, who was cheating with whom, gambling debts—you just never knew when a little inside knowledge could pay off.