“I had drinks with Sterling Alexander, Alexander and Pope Properties, and that’s one of the clients I share with Chaz. We, ah, met at about six-thirty at the Blue Dog Room. I think he left about seven-fifteen, close to that. He was going out to dinner, I think. I finished my drink, then I hooked up with some friends—a woman I’m seeing and another couple—for dinner. Chez Louis. I guess we left about ten-thirty. Alys and I went back to my place. We stayed in.”
“I’d like a list of names and contact information, for the files.”
“Sure.” He looked at Newton again. “This is really weird.”
“I’ll also need a list of any other clients you have who cross with the victim’s firm.” Done, Eve got to her feet. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
It took some time to get all the names and contacts she needed and the receptionist was chatty.
She learned she’d only copped the job a year before, when the expanding client list had warranted a separate receptionist rather than the assistants riding herd. The partners planned to connect with a small law firm, establishing them in the new building. They hoped, within the year, to take on an associate.
“An interesting mix,” Eve commented when they walked out of the offices.
“I think it works for them. Smooth operator—and slap my ass, is that guy built!”
“I noticed.”
“I love McNab’s skinny ass and bony shoulders, but mama! Anyway, Newton’s the smooth one, Whitestone’s the charisma, and Ingersol’s the hamster.”
“Hamster?”
“On the wheel. Go, go, get it done.”
“Something like that.”
“They’re all alibied up.”
“We’ll run the alibis through, but I expect they’ll hold. Mr. Body probably has the muscle to snap a neck, but he’d be too smart to use his own place for it. Maybe he, or Ingersol, wanted to flick a little dirt on Whitestone—a twofer—but they wouldn’t get their hands dirty. They’re serious suits.”
“But run them anyway,” Peabody said.
“You bet.”
“None of the three of them have a Cargo registered. Not in their names or the company name.”
“Check Newton’s finances, and their families, their family businesses.”
Once more she got behind the wheel. The boost of magic chicken soup wouldn’t last much longer, but she wanted to cover more ground.
“Let’s see if we can have a conversation with Mobsley.”
“Hot damn.”
“And try not to be a dick.”
“I know how to behave,” Peabody huffed. “I’m in a vid, you know. I’ve had a scene with vid stars. I’m going to a major premiere, and I didn’t have to score tickets. They were given to me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Come on, you have to be a little juiced. Mavis said the dress Leonardo designed for you is mag to the extreme.”
She remembered, vaguely, it was magenta—according to Leonardo who’d sided with Roarke when she’d said she already had fancy dresses, and why couldn’t she just wear black anyway.
“I don’t know why they have to make so much fuss over a vid. You go to it, you watch it, and eat popcorn.”
“It’s about us. Plus,” Peabody added slyly, knowing her target, “it’s really important to Nadine.”
Nadine Furst, ace reporter, screen personality, best-selling author—and, damn it, friend. No getting around it. “I’m going, aren’t I?”