“Not for you. For me, it’s very personal. Beth contacted me even as I was arranging for the plane to be readied. She asked me to come.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say. She didn’t have to—she only had to ask.”
Loyalty was a trait Eve had a difficult time arguing against. “I can’t stop you from going, but I’m warning you, this is department business.”
“And the department is in upheaval this morning,” he said evenly, “because of certain information leaked to the media—by an unnamed source.”
She hissed out a breath. Nothing like backing yourself into a corner. “I’m grateful for your help.”
“Enough to tell me the outcome?”
“I imagine the cap will be off by the end of the day.” She moved her shoulders restlessly, staring out the window, willing the miles away. “Simpson’s going to try to ditch the whole business on his accounting firm. I can’t see him pulling it off. The IRS’ll get him for tax fraud. I imagine the internal investigation will uncover where he got the money. Considering Simpson’s imagination, I’d bet on the standard kickbacks, bribes, and graft.”
“And the blackmail?”
“Oh, he was paying her. He admitted as much before his lawyer shut him up. And he’ll cop to it, once he realizes paying blackmail’s a lot less dicey than accessory to murder.”
She took out her communicator, requested Feeney’s access.
“Yo, Dallas.”
“Did you get them?”
Feeney held a small box up so that she could see it in the tiny viewing screen. “All labeled and dated. About twenty years’ worth.”
“Start with the last entry, work back. I should hit destination in about twenty minutes. I’ll contact you as soon as I can for a status report.”
“Hey, Lieutenant Sugar.” Charles edged his way on-screen and beamed at her. “How’d I do?”
“You did good. Thanks. Now, until I say different, forget about the safe box, the diaries, everything.”
“What diaries?” he said with a wink. He blew her a kiss before Feeney elbowed him aside.
“I’m heading back to Cop Central now. Stay in touch.”
“Out.” Eve switched off, slipped the communicator back in her pocket.
Roarke waited a beat. “Lieutenant Sugar?”
“Shut up, Roarke.” She closed her eyes to ignore him, but couldn’t quite wipe the smirk off her face.
When they landed, she was forced to admit that Roarke’s name worked even faster than a badge. In minutes they were in a powerful rental car and eating up the miles to Front Royal. She might have objected about being delegated to the passenger seat, but she couldn’t fault his driving.
“Ever done the Indy?”
“No.” He spared her a brief glance as they bulleted up Route 95 at just under a hundred. “But I’ve driven in a few Grand Prix.”
“Figures.” She tapped her fingers against the chicken stick when he shot the car into a vertical rise, skimmed daringly—and illegally—over the top of a small jam of cars. “You say Richard is a good friend. How would you describe him?”
“Intelligent, dedicated, quiet. He rarely speaks unless he has something to say. Overshadowed by his father, often at odds with him.”
“How would you describe his relationship with his father?”
He brought the vehicle down again, wheels barely skidding on the road surface. “From the little he might have said, and the things Beth let drop, I’d have to say combative, frustrated.”
“And his relationship with his daughter?”