She sighed, loved him beyond comprehension because he would do just that, without hesitation. “They’ll go with Nadine and the rocker. She’s got it. I’m not saying anything yet because I won’t get dick out of Peabody once she knows she’s going.”
“Then we’d best contact Leonardo.”
Eve snuggled in. “Why?”
“Our girl needs an Oscar dress—and shoes, a bag. You could lend her the jewelry.”
Now Eve yanked back. “But—”
“He’ll come up with something for McNab that suits. There’s not much time, but I’ll wager Leonardo can make it work, especially for Peabody and McNab.”
“Jesus, they already have clothes.”
“Not to worry.” Roarke simply patted it, and her, aside. “I’ll take care of this part of it. My contribution. Why don’t you deal with the dishes, and I’ll deal with this? Then we’ll set our minds to murder.”
“Life was easier when all I had to do was think about murder.”
“Well now, you changed your spots to splotches, didn’t you?” He kissed her again, then pulled out his ’link.
She muttered to herself as she gathered up the dishes.
“Leonardo,” she heard him say. “And how are you and your girls?”
She dealt with the cleanup, a fair trade in her mind as she didn’t have to discuss fashion or accessories. By the time she got around to programming a pot of coffee, Roarke was tucking his ’link away.
“He’s happy to help, so consider it done.”
“I’m not considering it at all. Jordan Banks.”
“Consider that all but done,” Roarke said, and strolled into his office.
The thing was, Eve admitted, she could. While he entertained himself digging into Jordan Banks’s finances, Eve pulled her team’s first reports from her incoming.
She scanned terminations first, highlighted any with connections to the military and/or finance.
She noted a couple of names—former employees of one company who’d shifted to the second. Those she earmarked for a deeper run.
While Eve worked and Roarke dug, Jordan Banks had an epiphany. The bitch of a cop had told him to think—and he’d done anything but. He didn’t like being threatened or made to feel uneasy, so in his habitual way, he simply ignored the sensations and went to a party.
Cocktails, illegals, music, a little quickie with the wife of a friend in a butler’s pantry. Some laughs, some gossip. He always filed gossip away for later use. Well utilized, gossip could be profitable.
More than a little high, he closed himself in one of the bathrooms to record some of the juice in his memo book. Family squabbles, who was cheating with whom, gambling debts—you just never knew when a little inside knowledge could pay off.
And it hit him.
Certainly he’d pumped Willi for information—subtly, of course. Let me be your sounding board, cookie. You look so stressed, lover. Why don’t you tell me all about it while I give you a back rub?
He’d gotten enough bits a
nd pieces to be useful—and more yet by accessing her files on her comp. Enough to tell his money man to keep an eye on Quantum. Enough to sound in-the-know should the conversation turn to business at a gathering.
Enough, he remembered now, to make a little loose change—always handy—for a little inside information.
But that was months ago, he thought. And only a bit of I’ll scratch your back, you scratch mine. But when he thought it through, when he added in the visit from the bitch and the Irish bastard, it played out.
Who would have thought!
To his credit, Banks had a moment of distress. Mild and soon over. After all, he wasn’t at all responsible for the regrettable violence. In fact, he was a victim.