that trouble to steal. He did his job. The goon or goons did theirs. But—”
“Bad management.”
“Yes!” She lifted her arms to punch her fists lightly in the air. “Bad fucking management. Now you’re all pissed off because the cops are coming in the door when you practically put out the welcome mat for them. And still I can’t be sure who it is.”
“Do you have any who it isn’t?”
“Yeah, I got some of those.”
“It’s a start.”
“They’re all various kinds of assholes, and looking at them, I can see any one of them doing this, ordering this. Even if I figure out who, it’s likely to be circumstantial right now. And I haven’t figured out the why, not altogether. It’s money. It’s got to be money. It’s greed, or Roarke used avarice. That’s classier greed, right?”
Feeney poked out his bottom lip with a nod. “Sounds classier.”
“Avarice. You’ve got it so you’re wading through it, but you want more. You’ll cheat, steal, and kill for more, and to protect yourself.”
“Have you got your rich guy looking at the financials?”
“Yeah.”
“If anybody can find the why. Look at the spouses.”
“They don’t all have one.”
“I bet they all get sex somewhere. The spouse either knows or just spends the money without giving a rat’s ass. If they’re not banging anyone specific regularly, then you find out who they pick up, hook up with, or pay. Greedy people like to talk about money, how much they have.”
“He doesn’t see the people who work for him,” she continued. “I don’t know if that includes a spouse, but it would be a licensed companion, a hookup, a sidepiece. Sex and money, always a winning combo.”
She took a handful of his almonds, popped one as she rose. “Thanks. Something to poke around in.”
“Greedy bastards who kill women deserve a cage just like sons of bitches who cyberstalk and rape them.”
“Fucking A.”
“Hey,” he called as she started out. “The wife says I have to rent a monkey suit for the premiere thing.”
“I don’t know, Feeney. Mira just told me she made her husband buy a new one.”
“What kind of crazy shit is this? Who needs to wear a monkey suit to watch a damn vid?”
“I’ve got to wear a dress, and stilts, and put crap all over my face. Don’t cry to me because you have to wear a tux.”
“Crazy shit,” he complained.
“Fucking A,” she agreed and went on her way.
BACK IN HER OFFICE, EVE RAN A SEARCH through gossip and society sites, hoping to mine a couple of gems. While it worked she contacted Vegas PD, and did the dance necessary to score a copy of the police report on the accident that had injured Arnold and Parzarri. Another contact garnered the information that both men would be cleared to travel the following day.
She intended to hit both of them for interviews as soon as possible.
While she waded through gossip—clothes, hair, hookups, breakups, tune-ups—she ran yet another search on Alexander’s wife, Pope’s wife, Tuva Gunnarsson, and Newton’s fiancée.
Enough, she decided, enough to start. Gathering her things, she walked out to the bullpen.
“Peabody, with me.”
“I can’t find anyone on the list who owns the Cargo van.” Peabody said, stuffing her arms into her coat as she caught up with Eve.
“Relatives, friends, rentals.”
“Nothing that’s hit, yet, but I’m still digging. Did you know, for instance, Chaz Parzarri has fourteen first cousins, and eleven of them live in New York or New Jersey?”
“I did not have that information.” Eve squeezed onto the elevator wondering why the hell it was always so crowded when she needed to use it. “Unless one of them owns a Maxima Cargo I don’t need that information.”
“Well, just saying that’s a lot of first cousins and none of them owns a Maxima Cargo. But I’m digging on the people as well as their potential vehicles. Just looking for any red flags. Gambling, whoring, unusual travel.”
Good management, Eve thought and gave herself a mental pat on the back. Good management contributed to good work.
“And?”
“So far your sort of expected gambling, whoring, and travel. Except for the married guys and the engaged guy on the whoring thing. If they’re tapping LCs, they’re doing it with cash, and with care.”
The woman wedged in the front corner wearing a skirt the size of a dinner napkin, high-laced boots, pink foaming hair Eve hoped was a wig, and a whopper of a black eye snapped an impressive wad of gum.
“You gotta report the cash,” she said conversationally. “You can give a credit discount