“It shouldn’t, but since it does, good work and all that.”
“It matters,” Nadine repeated. “And since we’re on it, the director and the cast have signed on for the vid. Well, they’re casting another Peabody, because, you know, dead actor—but everybody else is on board. They’re already asking for a third—to make it a kind of trilogy. I’m trying to decide which case to spring from.”
“Don’t ask me. And don’t say anything to Peabody about maybe going out to this Oscar deal. She’ll nag the crap out of me with silence and puppy eyes.”
“Not a word.”
“Are you taking the rock star?”
“I’m taking the rock star. It’s going to be a hell of a night if you change your mind.”
“I won’t. Gotta go interview an asshole.”
“How about a name? Assholes make great copy.”
“If he connects, I’ll let you know.”
Eve clicked off, opened the data Peabody had copied to her on Banks, reviewed it until Roarke opened the passenger door.
“Want me to drive while you work?” he asked.
“No, I’ve got enough. How’s it going in EDD?”
“Plenty of data unearthed, nothing that seems to apply at this point. And where are we off to?”
“Karson’s ex. What do you know about Jordan Banks?”
The DLE’s passenger seat adjusted for Roarke’s longer legs. “Other than he’s a wanker?”
“So that’s a confirmation of Karson’s admin’s opinion and Peabody’s famous gossip pages.”
“He’s barely an acquaintance, but I can confirm, yes, a wanker, and a git on top of it. Wealthy family, most of whom seem to do something constructive with their lives and advantages,” he continued as she pulled out of the parking slot. “I had a . . . closer acquaintance with one of his cousins.”
“Uh-uh.”
“A pleasant enough acquaintance with a woman of some intelligence and style, which contrasted sharply with her cousin. I’d judge Jordan has the brains of a bag of wet mice, but he’s sly enough, and has a certain slick charm that he slithers into to convince the unsuspecting to invest or lend or offer him bounties.”
“Did he try that with you?”
“He did once. I happened to run into his cousin—my pleasant acquaintance—in Madrid. I was on business, and she was about to marry a Spaniard. She graciously invited me to the wedding, and I accepted. Jordan was there, naturally enough, and laid it on thick about some scheme or other. I told him to bugger off. It was quite a lovely wedding, as I recall.”
“So no business with him?”
He turned those amazing blue eyes on her. “I rarely do business with wankers.”
“Is he afraid of you?”
“Why would he be?”
She just rolled her eyes as she negotiated traffic uptown. “When you told him to bugger off, did he bugger off or keep slithering?”
Roarke smiled a little. “I believe he buggered off right quick.”
“That’s what I’m talking about. So you’ll put on the coldly polite Roarke, which is scary enough, and if I need more, you can pull out the full scary Roarke. I don’t know if he’s got any connection to this, but since he was involved with Karson, he may know something about something.”
“Happy to oblige.” He shifted to look at her more fully. “You’ve had a long one, Lieutenant.”
“Not so long. It’s just . . . lots of DBs, a terrorized family, and all—it looks like—to profit off a stock-market gamble. It’s such a stupid, self-serving scheme that it ends up being damn smart. Sure, they made mistakes. Leaving two wits alive, talking in front of the kid when they should’ve zipped it. But they selected just the right type in Paul Rogan. What would you do to save two people you love more than yourself, more than anything?”