“Who wouldn’t?”
Because he’d gone deep, she was treated to educational history from Bissel’s formal play group at age three right through his two years abroad at an art school in Paris.
She read through his medical—the broken tibia at age twelve, the standard sight checks and adjustments at ages fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, and so on. He’d had some face and body work—ass, chin, nose.
He’d been a registered Republican, and had a gross worth of one million, eight hundred thousand and some change.
There was no criminal record, not even a whiff as a juvenile.
He’d paid his taxes in a timely fashion, lived well, but within his means.
Reva was his only marriage.
His parents were still living. His father remained in Cleveland with wife number two, and his mother in Boca Raton with husband number three. His brother—no marriage on record, no children registered—had entrepreneur listed as profession, a sure tip-off to the less polite: no gainful employment. His work history was varied as he’d moved from job to job and place to place. He was currently listed as residing in Jamaica, as part owner of a tiki bar.
His criminal record was equally varied. Petty ante stuff, Eve noted. A little graft, a bit of grift, a touch of larceny. He’d served eighteen
months in an Ohio state pen for his part in selling seniors nonexistent time-shares.
His gross worth was just over twelve thousand, which included his part in the tiki bar.
“I wonder if the younger brother has some issues with the fact big brother got the bucks and the glory. No violent crimes on record, but it’s different with family. People get worked up when it’s family. Add money and it gets messy.”
“So little brother comes up from Jamaica, kills big brother and frames sister-in-law.”
“Reaching,” she admitted with a purse of her lips, “but not that far if you speculate Carter Bissel knew about the project. Maybe he was approached, offered money for any information he could get. Maybe he gets some, maybe he doesn’t. But he’s slick enough to figure out his brother’s diddling on the side. Maybe a spot of blackmail, family fight. Threats.” She shrugged.
“Yes, I see the picture.” While he ate, Roarke turned it over in his mind. “He may have been a conduit. A liaison. Sibling rivalry turns deadly, and he and whoever recruited him decided to eliminate the loose ends.”
“Makes the most sense so far. We’ll want to chat with little bro Carter.”
“That’s handy as we don’t spend nearly enough time in tiki bars.”
Since it was there, she picked up the glass of cabernet and sipped while she studied her husband’s face. “You’re thinking something else.”
“No, just thinking. Have a look at Felicity Kade. Kade data, on screen two.”
She got the picture quickly enough of the only child of well-to-do parents. Extensive education, extensive travel. Homes in New York City, the Hamptons, and Tuscany. A socialite who earned some pin money as an art broker. Not that she needed extra to buy her pins, Eve thought, with a net worth—mostly inherited and through trust funds—of five million plus.
Never married, though there was one brief cohabitation on record in her twenties. At thirty, she lived alone, lived well—or had.
She’d had considerable body work, but had apparently been happy enough with her face. There was no unusual or unexpected medical data, and no criminal. No sealeds.
“Spends a lot,” Eve commented. “Clothes, salons, jewelry, art, travel. Lots of travel. And isn’t it interesting that she’s been to Jamaica four times in the last eighteen months.”
“Yes, it’s very interesting.”
“Could be she was cheating on the cheating husband with the cheating husband’s feckless brother.”
“Keep it in the family.”
“Or maybe she did the recruiting, looking for a fall guy should the situation call for one.”
He speared an artichoke heart. “It’s Reva who’s taking the fall.”
“Yeah. Just let me play with it.” She picked up her wine again, sipping at it as she rose to pace. “First trip a year and a half ago. Feels him out, maybe. Could use him to double-team Reva or Blair. Or both. She likes money. She likes risks. You don’t sleep with your friend’s husband if you don’t like risk, or if you have a conscience. Playing with global techno-terrorists might appeal to her. She likes travel, and with all the people she meets—through traveling, through her social position, through the art world . . . yeah, she could’ve been approached.”
“So, how did she end up dead?”