Roarke laid a hand over hers. “Absolutely anything.”
“You wouldn’t have pushed the button.”
“Wouldn’t I?”
She shook her head. “You’d—we’d—have found a way out. It takes being smarter, meaner, more crafty. He may have been smarter—under other circumstances—but he didn’t have the mean or the crafty, and that’s how they got him to do it.”
“You wonder if they’ll do it again.”
“Maybe it was a one-off. Maybe.”
“You don’t think so.”
“No, but if so, they’ll take their winnings and fucking celebrate. But even if, they’ll want to do it again down the road. It worked. They won. And if it wasn’t a one-off, they’re planners. Detail men. They’ll already have another target, another scheme.”
“I’ve thought the same, and so, I can tell you, does Feeney. Still, mergers of this magnitude don’t happen every day—or every year.”
“So you’ll help me figure out other ways they might manipulate the market.”
She pulled to the curb in front of a tower of silver and glass rising sleek as a sword into the evening sky.
“I’ll deal with the doorman,” Eve said, jumping out to confront the man in classic black livery. Before she could speak, he smiled.
“How can I help you, Lieutenant? Sir,” he added as Roarke stepped out.
Eve shifted modes. “Jordan Banks.”
“Of course. Mr. Banks should be in. He arrived only twenty minutes ago.”
He moved briskly to the wide glass doors which swept open to a deep lobby done in blacks and silvers, splashed with classy arrangements of red flowers. The air, fragrant with them, carried the hush of a church as they moved over the black tiles to the security desk.
“Lieutenant Dallas and Roarke for Jordan Banks,” the doorman told the man at the long counter.
“Of course. Sir,” he said, turning his gaze to Roarke, “should I call up to announce you?”
“No,” Eve said, definitely.
“Fifty-first floor. Number 5100 for the main entrance.” He pushed a button that had one of the silver elevator doors sliding silently open. “Enjoy your visit.”
“Thank you.” Roarke touched a hand to Eve’s arm as they walked into the elevator.
“Your building.”
“It is, yes.”
“So you don’t do business with wankers, but you rent to them?”
“I imagine I rent to scores of wankers, as even they need a roof over their heads.”
She looked up at the silver ceiling. “Some roof.”
“It’s rather nice, isn’t it?” He leaned in, and though she sent a narrowed eye toward the security cam, kissed her. “There’s an equally nice restaurant just next door, as I recall, if you’re hungry.”
“Home’s better for that.”
“It tends to be.”
They rode up, smoothly, silently, to fifty-one.