“Some of them were married or cohabbed at the time of the gala, and now aren’t. We’re checking them. Some are staff who, while not assigned specifically to the gala, would have easy access. Peabody added those, and she’s not wrong.”
“I’ll start in my office. I need to multitask for the next hour or so. Then I may join you in here.”
Eve settled into it. It was routine—tedious, but routine—with a rhythm she knew well. Within thirty minutes, she’d eliminated two names, one as she could confirm he’d been in Rio on the night the Patricks had been assaulted, and the second who’d been involved in a vehicular accident the day of the Strazzas’ attack, and was still recovering from a fractured ankle and other injuries.
She moved on, discarding, earmarking for a yet deeper search.
When Roarke came in, she’d just programmed more coffee as she studied the next subject.
“This guy went to clown school. Why is there a school for clowns? Why are there clowns?”
“Someone has to make ’em laugh.”
She slid her gaze to his face. “Seriously?”
He shrugged. “While some fear the clown, many more are vastly entertained.”
“This guy supplements his income in food services by dressing up in weird getups for parties and benefits. Or his income in food services supplements his clown gigs. Hard to tell. But there you have makeup and costumes and a propensity to scare the shit out of people.”
“Some people.”
Sincerely shocked, she gaped at him. “You like clowns?”
“Like is a strong word in this context.” He helped himself to her coffee. “I assume the clown goes on the suspect list.”
“You bet your ass.”
“I have one out of my five that bears a deeper look. The others I’ve eliminated, for reasons I’ve detailed in my memo back to you.”
“Good. I’ve got three out of nine.”
Roarke lifted an eyebrow. “You’re quicker at this.”
“I’m the cop.” And a human being, she thought, who could use a little smugness. “Want another set?”
“All right.” He sat at the auxiliary, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up.
She sent him five more, settled back into the rhythm.
At one point, she sat back. “I don’t think this guy’s a killer—or not ours anyway—but he’s sure as hell into something hinky.”
“Hinky as in supporting a sidepiece, travel and gifts for same—I’ve had a few of those—or hinky as in criminal?”
“Both actually. But I think the sidepiece is also a partner. A lot of travel for her, a lot of suspicious deposits—smallish, that added together aren’t smallish. Sixty to eighty large every six weeks, when she travels to Argentina—no relatives or business there on record. The deposits disappear, except for an exact ten percent.”
“Or end up in another account,” Roarke said. “Money laundering, and the ten’s her fee.”
“I get that. I don’t have time for that.” But she earmarked the name to send to those who would, and should. Caught Roarke’s grin.
“What?”
“The poor bastard has no idea of the good news/bad news heading his way. ‘Sir, you’re clear of any suspicion of murder, and are now under investigation for money laundering, probable fraud, and so on’。”
“He should’ve thought of that before he got so greedy.”
She moved on, frowned when her ’link signaled.
“Dallas.”
“Hey.” McNab’s pretty face came on screen.
“You’re still at it?”
“Got sucked into the puzzle, you know? She-Body’s up here in the lab working on her stuff, so it’s all smooth. Got pizza and fizzies. But we’re calling it pretty soon, so I wanted to let you know I’ve got some pieces. Man, you would not believe what people throw in a recycler, and in that ritz neighborhood.”
“Pieces of the ’link?”
“Yeah. Only some of it got shredded—we lucked out. It’s crushed to shit, so it’s going to take a while. I can’t say a hundred percent, but what I’m putting together, I’m going to say it looks homemade. It looks like somebody made it out of spare parts. It’s not all from one manufacturer or from the same model—that I can say for a hundred.”
“That’s good. That’s good work. Put Peabody on.”
“Hang a mo. She-Body, Dallas wants a jaw.”