Shadows in Death (In Death #51) - J.D. Robb Page 0,9

that painting’s gone.

“He paid Cobbe to kill her. Now I have to prove it.” Watching him, she drank more coffee. “What you know should help me do that.”

“I like to think so. Despite the hour, you’ll want to set up your board and book. I’ll do the board—I know by now how you like it—and I’ll tell you what I can while we’re about it.”

“All right.” She opened operations on her command center.

As he knew she preferred the physical to the virtual, he sat at the auxiliary to print out photos.

“If there’s a law enforcement or intelligence agency on planet who isn’t aware of Lorcan Cobbe, I’ve never heard of it. While his choice of profession keeps him largely in Europe, he’s ventured afield a few times. He keeps no fixed address, not one they’ve found in any case. He’ll have holes to crawl into between jobs, and they’ll be on the lavish side. He always wanted the good life, and with his fees, he can afford it.”

She stopped to look over. “You tracked down his fees?”

“Not specifically as yet. But I can tell you when you look at the hits he’s suspected of in the last fifteen years or so, they’d all connect to the wealthy, the prominent. One doesn’t slit the throat of the pregnant girlfriend of the vice president of Greece—a man of wealth and even higher ambitions—for loose change.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t see that in his file during my run. It should’ve stuck out.”

“I used the unregistered. The politician had enough wealth and influence to bury it in Greece, but Interpol had a hard look. You may not be able to use some of what I’ve found, and will find yet, but you need to know it.”

A thin line to walk, Eve thought, so she’d better keep her balance. “Can you find Cobbe’s accounts?”

“I will.”

“Do you think he took this job in New York because you’re here?”

“I don’t, no, or he’d have moved on me one way or the other without showing himself.”

“But he did show himself.”

Arranging her board, he glanced back. “That he did. And now I’m doing what he wants me to do. I’m thinking of him, and I worry about the people who matter to me. But he’s the one who’ll regret that in the end.”

“I’ll make sure of it.”

He smiled at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ll tell you how I see it then. I’ve no doubt you’re right about Tween, which means Tween has contacts who could recommend him to Cobbe. When did the affair start?”

“Last summer.”

“More than time enough. People who take lovers think they’re being clever and careful, when they’re rarely either. Tween learns of the affair—and you’ll likely find he hired someone for evidence there. He can’t risk her divorcing him, as it’s her money, isn’t it, and such a step could erode his standing in the family business. So, obviously, she has to be eliminated.”

“For someone like Tween? Yeah, that’s how I see it, too. Plus … she insulted him by cheating on him. He’s not going to ask himself why she did it. It’s not breaking his heart. But it’s an insult—and with some artist? Insult to injury.

“Italy,” she added. “You say Cobbe mainly works in Europe, so odds are the connection, the contact is in Italy.”

“Odds are. For a job like this, while simple and straightforward for a professional killer, the client stands to inherit a great deal of wealth, and it’s likely Cobbe factored that into the fee. I don’t see him taking a job in New York of this nature for less than a million. That would be at least the half of it up front. That’s his likely base, with additional for his expenses.”

She didn’t disagree, as she thought the same. But still …

“Then why didn’t he take the money, do the job, walk away? Why was he still in the park when we got there?”

Idly, Roarke pulled the strap from his hair, slid it into his pocket. And with it, he felt the little button, Eve’s gray button he carried for sentiment and luck.

“I knew him as a boy, though I’ve kept tabs on him since. But as a boy he considered cops idiots, especially any who weren’t corrupt. Not that you found many in Dublin in those days who weren’t. He’d often, back then, prove the cliché about returning to the scene of the crime. He liked to watch the cops and smirk at his superiority. Whenever