“If that was always the plan, they may not have had a stash of his paintings ahead of the game.”
“Yeah, that’s another bitch. Still, you know people in the art-collecting world, and people who know people.”
“I’ll poke around there. I can tell you that there will be an immediate boost on the value. As soon as the details and circumstances of his death, and the loss of much of his work, gets out? Well, there are certain collectors who’ll pay considerably more due to those circumstances. Particularly.”
“Maybe you know some of those sick bastards?”
“I may know a few, and of more. If this is the plan—and it follows, doesn’t it—they’d have to know at least one.”
“Yeah. They have a connection. Business world/stock market, art collecting. Gambling. I can’t figure what’s next. They had to have at least one contingency plan, one alternate mark if neither of these worked out. And since they both worked, why not go ahead with the contingency?”
“Some quit while ahead,” he reminded her, but she shook her head.
“Not these two. And it’ll be quick, that’s pattern, too. Bang, bang, bang. How much did you pay for the painting you’ve got?”
“Happily I looked that up as I thought you might ask. Fifty thousand euros. It’s insured now for a hundred twenty-five USD. He was moving up.”
“How much do you figure it’s worth now to one of those sick bastard types?”
Roarke took a considering sip of beer as he calculated. “I expect I could sell it through standard means tomorrow—after the media play—for a quarter million. Through less standard means, if I waited a few days more? As it’s learned just how many of his originals exist? Half a million.”
“A hell of a return quick and fast, right? And if you have multiples, some or likely most of which you stole—so no outlay—potentially millions.”
“Smart money would wait a few years, let the legend ripen—and as he had exceptional talent, died young and tragically, it will. Then you’d turn a painting like ours for several million.”
“They won’t wait. Maybe—maybe—they’ll hold on to one or two because they like to gamble. But it’s quick profit first. The quick score. They’ve had feelers out, or they’re putting them out now.
“Sell the stocks, sell the painting,” she mused, “take the cash. Pure profit. That’s where we have to focus. It’s the greed that’ll get them. That’s the focus until I can figure out their next target.”
“The problem with tracking the stocks is the use of side sales, day-trading, numbered accounts, working it offshore and off-planet. And selling off in smallish, strategic bits rather than large lumps. The large lumps are fairly easy to track back to their sources—even considering all the above. And I’ve found those.”
“Why haven’t I heard that before this?” Eve demanded.
“Because they’re going to lead you nowhere. Like your rental vans, they’ve proven legitimate, and nothing that crosses your investigation. Still, I have them for you. You’ve been a bit busy today.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. I mean it.”
“And what is it besides fatigue and frustration weighing down on you?”
“Eighteen dead’s a lot of weight.”
“What else?”
She drew a breath. “I told Peabody Nadine could take her to the Oscar thing. And McNab. How you and Leonardo are handling the wardrobe part of it. So she—Jesus.”
After staring into her glass, she put the half glass of beer aside, pushed up. “She didn’t say anything at first, then she does the stand-up thing. Can’t leave in the middle of an investigation, so I knocked that back. Then she started blubbering. Just blubbering, and telling me how this is some lifelong fantasy dream deal for her. She’s out of orbit about it, so out of orbit she even shuts up about it so she doesn’t piss me off.”
She hissed, dragged her hands through her hair. “Then, boom.”
“And that changes things.”
“Christ, yes. She already brought it up—job comes first. No whining about it.”
“That’s our Peabody,” he replied.
“I said I wasn’t going to think about it yet—we just keep going. But the job comes first. If we can’t wrap this up, or if they hit again? I can’t cut her loose. I’m not just her friend, she’s not just my partner. I’m the boss. I have to do what I have to do.”
“You do, yes.” He rose. “The job, the dead, the victims all come first. She’d never question that. She’s a good cop, so they all come first for her as well. But—”
“There can’t be any buts on this,” Eve began.
“But,” he repeated, moving to her, laying his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll be your Peabody.”
“It’s not—”
“I’m not a cop,” he interrupted. “But I have certain skills, and in this particular case, certain connections and insights that should be useful. They’re yours while you need them.”
“You’ve got your own work to deal with.”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait. Your job may not come first for me, but you do. And Peabody, Nadine, Mavis? They matter a great deal. Beyond that, the victims matter to me as well. You’d do what needs doing, and you’d carry the weight. You’d carry it longer than Peabody, who’d never blame you or the job. So I’ll be your Peabody.”
Her chest burned. “You’d look stupid in that damn magic pink coat of hers.”
“Well now, I’ve my own, don’t I? So you’ll work with an expert consultant, civilian, for a few days if needs must, and the woman who matters to both of us can fulfill that lifelong fantasy without guilt.”
He took her hands. “And I’ll enjoy hunting down a pair of murderous, greedy bastards with my clever cop. There’s a win for me.”
“What about all the planets and their satellites you’re scheduled to buy?”
“Word is they’ll still be there next week. If not? Well, look at the money you’ll have saved me.”
Eve squeezed his hands, hard. “She’ll blubber again.”
“I won’t. And there’s a win for you.”
“Okay.” She moved into him. “But I’m going to work the hell out of the ass she’s obsessed with before she leaves.” Turning, she looked back at her board. “And if we pin their asses, so much the better.”
“Tell her that,” he suggested. “Send her a memo, take the weight off altogether. You’ll both work clearer.”
“I guess we would. I’ll do that, then I’ve got to write a couple reports, update my board.”
“I believe I’ll renew acquaintance with a few sick bastards I know in the art world. And since you’ve no intention of finishing your cop beer as you’ll go for coffee, I’ll take it with me.”
She got the coffee, composed the memo.
From: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve
To: Peabody, Detective, Delia
Re: Official Leave
This confirms the leave previously discussed and approved. You are granted official leave of seventy-two hours, commencing Friday at sixteen hundred hours. I will work with my expert consultant, civilian, during that period on current investigations, and any other official business that may ensue during said period.
That’s it.
Between this time and the commencement of official leave, be prepared to work your ass off. If I hear any shit about my decision and directive, I will kick whatever is left of your ass.
And done, Eve thought, began outlining reports.
It took twenty minutes for Peabody’s response, during which time, Eve concluded, her partner had struggled with righteous objections, resolved herself, and blubbered.
From: Peabody, Detective Delia
To: Dallas, Lieutenant Eve
Re: Official Leave
Sir. I’m grateful to you for granting this leave, and to the expert consultant, civilian, for making said leave possible during the course of a challenging investigation. If circumstances require this leave to be rescinded, I am prepared to return to duty at any time during the seventy-two hours.
I am fully prepared to work my ass off until it’s as skinny as yours. (I wish.)
Thank you.
She had to smile, then rose to update her board.
She stood back, studying the new faces as Roarke came in.
“I had one faint glimmer,” he began.
“I’ll take faint glimmer.”
“A contact with—we’ll stick with sick bastard for now—indicates he received a query several weeks ago. On the dark web, which the sick bastard frequents.”
“About Richie’s paintings?”
“About a hypothetical. If the artist of a certain painting, worth an estimated amount, were to die a sudden and tragic death with much of his work destroyed in this tragedy, would the sick bastard be interested in bidding on the painting.”
“That’s pretty damn vague. Yet specific.”
“My contact claims he asked for more specifics—after all, if he didn’t know the artist in question or the painting, he couldn’t speculate. However, several others expressed some interest.”
“It’s a sick bastard world.”
“And yet, without sick bastards where would we be? The upshot, for the moment, is the hypothetical refused specifics, instead boasting he’d provide them in the spring. Advising the sick bastards to prepare for bidding.”
“Weeks ago. So they knew about Richie, knew about the plans for the opening, likely had Denby selected as the trigger.” She circled. “That, the showing and all of the hype around it, would have been set. A date, specific.”
“For marketing, and the hyping, to give Richie time to finish work, to select it. Yes. And no, the meeting for the merger wouldn’t have been set weeks ago. It would have been in the works, certainly. But the very definite date and time wouldn’t have been set until closer to that date and time.”