He let out a quiet breath. “I didn’t know if you’d been here when the bomb went off.”
He released her hands to skim one of his over her hair, then flicked a finger down the dent in her chin. “You might have been here,” he murmured.
“I wasn’t.” Understanding, she gave his hands a firm squeeze. “Five people were—including the guy in the vest. Family man, one of the owners.”
“And his family?”
“I’ve got uniforms, Baxter and Trueheart, on that.”
He looked through the archway, said nothing for several seconds. “There’s no water damage. The sprinkler didn’t engage?”
“It didn’t. Neither did the fire alarm.”
“As I’m here, would you like me to check on that for you?”
“That’d be handy. They had an art opening scheduled for tonight—a p
retty big one. Artist—the same one who did the missing figure study—was Angelo Richie.”
“Richie? That’s a pity. He had talent.” Roarke brushed a hand down her arm as if just needing the contact. “We have one of his paintings—Woman in Moonlight—in a guest room.”
“We do?”
“We do, yes. I spotted it on a trip to Italy a year or so ago.”
“He and what was probably a bunch of his paintings, or what’s left of him and them, were in there.”
“I see.”
“I bet you do. What’s the point of blowing up an artist and a bunch of his paintings? A artist I’m told was about to hit it big?”
Roarke shifted his gaze back, met her eyes. “You’re a quick study, Lieutenant. What would you name as motive?”
“Leverage.”
“Exactly. A young, very promising artist dies violently and tragically before his first major American opening. And much of his work dies with him.”
“His surviving work shoots up in value,” she finished.
“It certainly will. Anyone who bought—or stole—any of his previous work would see a substantial return on the investment.”
“The one they stole? That’s a bonus point. This was planned well before they killed Banks.”
“No doubt of that.” He took her hand again. “I’ll check on that system for you.”
He started to step away, but her comm signaled. “Dallas. When?” She listened, eyes narrowing. “How bad is the wife? Yeah, got it. Have EDD check every damn thing. Have Child Services hang with the kid until. Stick with them, Baxter.”
She shoved the comm back in her pocket. “Kid was sedated, lightly.” She turned to include the detectives in the update. “Unharmed, a little dehydrated, scared shitless. Wife took a beating—face mostly. They broke two of her fingers. She’s about twelve and a half weeks pregnant.”
“Ah, fuck that,” Santiago said and kicked the bottom of the arch.
“MTs say she’s stable, but they’re taking her in for tests, more fluids, whatever they do. Kid was restrained to the bed in his room. The wife in a utility area. Home invasion happened early Tuesday morning. The wife thinks about four, four-thirty.”
“That’s fast work,” Roarke added.
“Yeah, terrorize Rogan into blowing up the Quantum meeting Monday morning, collect the winnings, most likely. Then move on Banks who’s stupid enough to put a target on his back. Steal the painting and electronics and/or records that connect you, head over to the next mark and get to work.”
She circled the room. “Banks wasn’t planned, but they fit him in. They had to deal with him before they moved to the next mark. Cut off that loose end first—and get the bonus point.”