“Treegro’s a reforestry company, hence the overly adorable name. I’m taking it over.”
She grunted. “Figures. I was thinking more of the Towers case.”
“Cicely’s memorial service is scheduled for tomorrow. She was important enough, and Catholic enough, to warrant St. Patrick’s Cathedral.”
“Will you go?”
“If I can reschedule a few appointments. Will you?”
“Yeah.” Thinking, Eve leaned back on the counter. “Maybe her killer will be there.”
She studied him as he scanned the monitor. He should have looked out of place in her kitchen, she mused, in his expensive, meticulously tailored linen shirt and with the luxurious mane of hair swept back from that remarkable face.
She kept waiting for him to look out of place there, with her.
“Problem?” he murmured, well aware that she was staring at him.
“No. Things on my mind. How well do you know Angelini?”
“Marco?” Roarke frowned over something he saw on the monitor, took out his notebook, entered a memo. “Our paths cross often enough. Normally a careful businessman, always a devoted father. Prefers spending his time in Italy, but his power base is here in New York. Contributes generously to the Catholic Church.”
“He stands to gain financially from Towers’s death. Maybe it’s just a drop in the bucket, but Feeney’s checking it out.”
“You could have asked me,” Roarke murmured. “I would have told you Marco’s in trouble. Not desperate trouble,” he amended when Eve’s eyes sharpened. “He’s made some ill-advised acquisitions over the past year or so.”
“You said he was careful.”
“I said he was normally careful. He bought several religious artifacts without having them thoroughly authenticated. His zeal got in the way of his business sense. They were forgeries, and he’s taken a hard loss.”
“How hard?”
“In excess of three million. I can get you exact figures, if necessary. He’ll recover,” Roarke added with a shrug for three million dollars Eve knew she would never get used to. “He needs to focus and downsize a bit here and there. I’d say his pride was hurt more than his portfolio.”
“How much was Towers’s share of Mercury worth?”
“On today’s market?” He took out his pocket diary, jiggled some numbers. “Somewhere between five and seven.”
“Million?”
“Yes,” Roarke said with the faintest hint of a smile. “Of course.”
“Good Christ. No wonder she could live like a queen.”
“Marco made very good investments for her. He would have wanted the mother of his children to live comfortably.”
“You and I have dramatically different ideas about comfort.”
“Apparently.” Roarke tucked the diary away and rose to refill his coffee and hers. An airbus rumbled by the window, chased by a fleet of private shuttles. “You suspect that Marco killed her to recoup his losses?”
“Money’s a motive that never goes out of style. I interviewed him yesterday. I knew something didn’t quite fit. Now it’s beginning to.”
She took the fresh coffee he offered, paced to the window where the noise level was rising, then away again. Her robe was slipping off her shoulder. Casually, Roarke tucked it back into place. Bored commuters often carried long-range viewers for just such an opportunity.
“Then there’s the friendly divorce,” she went on, “but whose idea was it? Divorce is complicated for Catholics when there are children involved. Don’t they have to get some sort of clearance?”
“Dispensation,” Roarke corrected. “A complex business, but both Cicely and Marco had connections with the hierarchy.”
“He’s never remarried,” Eve pointed out, setting her coffee aside. “I haven’t been able to find even a whiff of a steady or serious companion. But Towers was having a long-term intimate relationship with Hammett. Just how did Angelini feel about the mother of his children snuggling with a business partner?”