She ended the call, stuffed the pasta in her mouth. “Nadine broadcast the connection.”
“What?”
“Sorry.” She swallowed and repeated the statement more coherently. “Figured she’d make it after talking to Gannon, and that she’d go on air.”
“Problem?”
“If it was dicey I’d’ve stopped her. And to give her credit, she’d have let me. No, it’s no problem. He’ll catch a broadcast and he’ll know we’ve got lines to tug. Make him think, make him wonder.”
She stabbed a meatball, broke off a forkful, wrapped pasta around it. “Bobby Smith, whoever the hell he is, should be doing a lot of thinking tonight.”
And he was. He’d come home early from a cocktail party that had bored him to death. The same people, the same conversations, the same ennui. There was never anything new.
Of course, he had a great deal new to talk about. But he hardly thought his recent activities were cocktail conversation.
He’d switched on the screen. Before he’d gone out he’d programmed his entertainment unit to record any mention of various key words: Gannon, Jacobs-as that had turned out to be her name- Cobb. Sweet little Tina. And sure enough, there’d been an extended report by the delicious Nadine Furst on 75 that had combined all of those key words.
So, they’d made the connection. He hadn’t expected the police to make it quite that quickly. Not that it mattered.
He changed into lounging pants, a silk robe. He poured himself a brandy and fixed a small plate of fruit and cheese, so that he could be comfortable while he viewed the report again.
Settled on the sofa in the media room of his two-level apartment on Park Avenue, he nibbled on Brie and tart green grapes while Nadine relayed the story again.
Nothing to link him to the naive little maid, he concluded. He’d been careful. There’d been a few transmissions, true, but all to the account he’d created for that purpose, and sent or received from a public unit. He’d always taken her places where they were absorbed by a crowd. And when he’d decided he needed to kill her, he’d taken her to the building on Avenue B.
His father’s company was renovating that property. It was untenanted, and though there had been some blood-actually, considerable blood-he’d tidied up. Even if he’d missed a spot or two, crews of carpenters and plumbers would hardly notice a new stain or two among the old.
No, there was nothing to connect a silly maid from the projects to the well-educated, socially advanced and cultured son of one of the city’s top businessmen.
Nothing to connect him to the earnest and struggling young artist Bobby Smith.
The artist angle had been brilliant-naturally. He could draw competently enough, and he’d charmed the naive and foolish Tina with a little sketch of her face.
Of course, he’d had to ride a bus to create the “chance” meeting. Hideous ordeal. He had no idea how people tolerated such experiences, but imagined those who did neither knew nor deserved any better.
After that, it was all so simple. She’d fallen in love with him. He’d hardly had to expend any effort there. A few cheap dates, a few kisses and soulful looks, and he’d had his entree into Gannon’s house.
He’d had only to moon around her, to go with her one morning-claiming as he met her at the bus stop near the town house that he hadn’t been able to sleep thinking of her.
Oh, how she’d blushed and fluttered and strolled with him right to Gannon’s front door.
He’d watched her code in-memorized the sequence, then, ignoring her halfhearted and whispered protests, had nipped in behind her, stealing another kiss.
Oh Bobby, you can’t. If Miz Gannon comes down, I could get in trouble. I could get fi red. You have to go.
But she’d giggled, as if they were children pulling a prank, as she shooed at him.
So simple then to watch her quickly code into the alarm. So simple.
Not as simple, he admitted now, not nearly as simple for him to walk out again and leave her waving after him. For a moment, just one hot moment, he’d considered killing her then. Just bashing in that smiling, ordinary face and being done with it. Imagined going upstairs, rooting Gannon out and beating the location of the diamonds out of her.
Beating her until she told him everything, everything she hadn’t put in her ridiculous book.
But that hadn’t been the plan. The very careful plan.
Then again, he thought with a shrug, plans changed. And so he’d gotten away with murder. Twice.
After toasting himself, he sipped brandy.
The police could speculate all they liked, they’d never connect him, a man like him, with someone as common as Tina Cobb. And Bobby Smith? A figment, a ghost, a puff of smoke.
He wasn’t any closer to the diamonds, but he would be. Oh, he would be. And at least he wasn’t, by God, bored.
Samantha Gannon was the key. He’d read her book countless times after the first shocked reading, when he’d found so many of his own family secrets spread out on the page. It amazed him, astounded him, infuriated him.
Why hadn’t he been told there were millions of dollars-millions-tucked away somewhere? Diamonds that belonged, by right, to him.
Dear old Dad had left that little detail out of the telling.
He wanted them. He would have them. It really was that simple.
With them he could, he would, break away from his father and his tedious work ethic. Away from the boredom, the sameness of his circle of friends.
He would be, as his grandfather had been, unique.
Stretching out, he called up another program and watched the series of interviews he’d recorded. In each, Samantha was articulate, bright, attractive. For that precise reason he hadn’t attempted to contact her directly.
No, the dim-witted, stars-in-her-eyes Tina had been a much safer, much smarter move.
Still, he was really looking forward to getting to know Samantha better. Much more intimately.
Chapter 7
Eve woke, as usual, to find Roarke up before her, already dressed and settled into the sitting area of the bedroom with coffee, the cat and the morning stock reports on screen.
He was, she saw through one bleary eye, eating what looked like fresh melon and manually keying in codes, figures or state secrets, for all she knew, on a ’link pad.
She gave a grunt as way of good morning and stumbled off to the bathroom.
As she closed the door, she heard Roarke address the cat. “Not at her best before coffee, is she?”
By the time she came out, he’d switched the screen to news, added the audio and was doctoring up a bagel. She nipped it out of his hand, stole his coffee and carried them both to her closet.
“You’re as bad as the cat,” he complained.
“But faster. I’ve got a morning briefing. Did you catch a weather report?”
“Hot.”
“Bitching hot or just regular hot?”
“It’s September in New York, Eve. Guess.”
Resigned, she pulled out whatever looked less likely to plaster itself against her skin after five minutes outside.
“Oh, I’ve a bit of information on the diamonds for you. I did some poking around yesterday.”
“You did?” She glanced around, half expecting him to tell her the shirt didn’t go with the pants, or the jacket didn’t suit the shirt. But it seemed she’d lucked out and grabbed pieces that met his standards. “I didn’t think you’d have time with all that ass-kicking.”
“That did eat up considerable time and effort. But I carved out a little time between bloodbaths. I’ve just put it together for you this morning, while you were getting a little more beauty sleep.”
“Is that a dig?”
“Darling, how is telling you you’re beautiful a dig?”
Her answer was a snort as she strapped on her weapon.
“That jacket looks well on you.”
She eyed him warily as she adjusted her weapon harness under the shoulder. “But?”
“No buts.”
It was tan, though she imagined he’d call it something else. Like pumpernickel. She never understood why people had to assign strange names to colors.
“My lovely urban warrior.”
“Cut it out. What did you get?”
“Precious little, really.” He tapped the disk he’d set on the table. “The insurance company paid out for the quarter of them and the investigator’s fee of five percent on the rest. So it was a heavy loss. Could’ve been considerably worse, but insurance companies tend to take a dim view on multimillion-dollar payouts.”
“It’s their gamble,” she said with a shrug. “Don’t play if you don’t wanna pay.”
“Indeed. They did a hard press on O’Hara’s daughter, but couldn’t squeeze anything out. Added to that, she was the one to find or help the investigator find what there was to recover, and she was instrumental in nailing Crew for the police.”
“Yeah, I got that far. Tell me what I don’t know.”
“They pushed at the inside man’s family, associates, at his coworkers. Came up empty there, but watched them for years. Any one of them had upped their lifestyle without having, say, won the lottery, they’d have been hauled in. But they could never find Crew’s ex-wife or his son.”
“He had a kid?” And she kicked herself for not going back in and checking the runs after they’d returned home the night before.
“He did, apparently. Though it’s not in Gannon’s book. He was married, divorced and had a son who’d have been just shy of seven when the heist went down. I couldn’t find anything on her with a standard starting six months after the divorce.”
Interest piqued, she walked back to the sitting area. “She went under?”
“She went under, the way it looks, and stayed there.”
He’d gotten another bagel while he spoke, and more coffee. Now he sat again. “I could track her, if you like. It’d take a bit more than a standard, and some time as we’re going back half a century. I wouldn’t mind it. It’s the sort of thing I find entertaining.”
“Why isn’t it in the book?”
“I imagine you’ll ask Samantha just that.”
