“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 if you want ’cause you don’t have to pay the credit fee, but you gotta report it.”
“Is that so? Note that down, Peabody. How’d you get the mouse?” Eve asked her.
“An associate and me had a difference of opinion about a clie
nt. Bitch popped me. I just filed a complaint ’cause you gotta have it on record, right? Officer Mills was real nice about it. He didn’t even want a free BJ.”
“That’s . . . nice.”
“I’m all about giving freebies to cops, and firefighters, when I can. To show my support.”
“And the city of New York thanks you.”
The woman beamed, snapped her gum, then sailed off the elevator when the doors opened on the main floor. Grateful nearly everyone else in the car exited along with the LC, Eve shifted for some breathing room.
“Okay, Peabody, pick it up.”
“I guess she hasn’t figured out offering a free blow job to a cop’s considered a bribe.”
“Just trying to do her civic duty.”
“Right. Where was I? Oh yeah. The Young-Biden team likes gambling. Win some, lose some—and I say that as if winning and or losing more than I make in a year at the tables or on a horse is no big deal. They, Alexander, and Ingersol, travel a lot. Bunches, to really frosty places, including some I’ve never heard of. Newton does some traveling, and likes sports betting—minor league stuff on the betting. Just friendly amounts. Whitestone travels mostly for business, but does it up right. He also likes to scuba, and he’s taking some trips with that at the center.”
“They all live within their considerable means, or so it appears,” Eve said as they got off on her level of the garage. “And live according to what we’d call their privileged or semi-privileged lifestyle. And that lifestyle includes spouses, fiancées, lovers, exes, LCs—and, you bet your ass, sidepieces.”
“You don’t really think that mouse bait Pope has a sidepiece.”