With a nod, Peabody opened the double closet doors. “Holy shit. Look at this, Dallas.” Peabody stepped back. “It’s a freaking vault.”
Rising, Eve walked over to study the sheer steel. She pulled out her ’link. When Roarke came on, she said, “Want a challenge?” and angled the ’link to show him the vault.
“Well now, that’s a Podark, and a fine, big girl she is, as well. Would you be in the Terra residence?”
“Terra’s bogus, but yeah.”
“I believe I’d enjoy a challenge. Let me clear a thing or two up. I should be there in thirty minutes. Forty at the outside.”
“Works for me.”
“A Podark,” he said, with what Eve could only think of as a happy sigh. “It’s been some time.”
Eve went back to the desk. “Start checking drawers,” she told Peabody, opening one in the desk.
She pulled out a thick leather binder, opened it. “Well, you just don’t expect to hit pay dirt. That’s another one: Why does dirt pay? But you don’t expect it right off the jump.”
“Whatcha got?”
“A research file, I’d say. There are several in here. Marks, potential marks, maybe. Clippings. She printed stuff out, made her little scrapbooks. Photos, too. And some of them she must’ve taken herself, maybe using a long-range lens. Portable this way. She could pull one out, lounge on the sofa, hit the AC. I bet it’s fully stocked. Weave her webs. The suspect list is going to…”
Peabody glanced back, then turned completely when she saw the fury lighting Eve’s eyes.
“What?”
“She has Mavis in here.” Eve flipped a page. “Mavis, Leonardo, the baby. Goddamn it. Some data, just basic shit. Some question marks, Roman numerals, but just your basic shit from a standard run or from interviews, articles.”
She slapped at the computer as she rose. She wanted in. If there was anything more, it would be in the comp.
She pulled out her ’link.
Mavis, sleepy eyes, tousled Carribean-blue hair, smiled. “Hey.”
“Where are you?”
“Huh? Oh, Aruba, remember? We buzzed down for a couple weeks. I’ve got a gig, and it’s maxi-mag-lush down here. You should completely come. We could—”
“Mavis, did Larinda Mars ever put the arm on you, or Leonardo?”
“Larinda?” Mavis yawned and stretched. “Sure. Interviews, photos, exclusives, the dish. It’s part of the life. Why?”
“She’s dead, and she has a file on you.”
“Dead? Like dead? How? When?”
“A couple days ago. The kind of dead that has me looking for who made her that way. She has a file on you, Mavis.”
“Well, I guess she would. I mean, I guess people in her business would. Holy crapola, Dallas. I mean she was kind of a bitch, but—”
Somewhere in the background Bella laughed and said, very clearly, “Bitch!”
“Damn it,” Mavis muttered. “I forgot. Mama said ‘fish,’ Bellamina. We’re going to go see fish later.”
“What kind of bitch?”
“Fish,” Mavis insisted. “She was a pushy fish. Like—barracuda! That’s a fish. She had that kind of smile—you know, shiny and sharp—if you didn’t give her what she was after. But we got along okay, no probs. I didn’t bump into her all that often anyway.”
“She was a blackmailing fish.”