&nb
sp; As he ate, Roarke considered it. “He’s small-time, basically a grifter running a long con on an easy mark—because she cares for him, trusts him, it’s easy. Some part of him believes the con—he’s taking care of things.”
He sat back, gestured with the wine. “He got lucky, as I see it, having a young, attractive woman fall for him, and again making contact with someone like Jones. He gives each of them what they want or need from him.”
“Which is?”
“For the woman, he’s attentive, charming, he buys her little thoughtful gifts, I’d wager, makes her feel special. Meanwhile he plays to her hopes for a future. If she can just support him now—emotionally, financially—just until he reestablishes, he’ll give her everything she wants. He hates to ask, of course, hates to put such a burden on her. He’s not worthy of her.”
“Which makes her feel special, again. Puts her in a position of proving he’s worthy.”
“It’s likely a Mira question on why she’d fall for it, but by all accounts, she did. With Jones, he’s the professional. The smart guy, the lawyer. Disbarred, but that’s just a technicality, and it gives him that leg up. He knows the ins and outs, the back doors, the underbelly. And if one of his gang has a little legal problem, he can step in, give advice on the side—those ins and outs. He gives Jones a way to own something, to look at these properties, and think: That’s mine. That’s powerful, take it from me.”
Bouncing things off Roarke never failed, Eve thought. Because he really did know the ins and the outs.
“It’s not just cutting Cohen in on a percentage of the action—that’s business,” she said. “It’s the trust again. He’s got a lawyer, one with connections, one who helps him out now and again, and one who isn’t fussy about where the percentage comes from. Cohen’s in it, too, and that builds trust. I go down, you go down.”
“Again, I’d defer to Mira, but wouldn’t that be the sort of bond Jones would trust? Add in profit, the tangible buildings. Jones may believe what he tells Cohen falls under attorney-client privilege.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. It doesn’t surprise me, either, we’re on the same page. Cohen knows about the murders. Accessory before or after the fact yet to be determined.”
And she’d damn well determine.
“How soon can you get me those hard numbers?”
“It won’t take long.”
“And put together in a way that gets me a warrant.”
Now his eyebrows rose. “What? Like a report?”
“Not that formal, just clear so I can send it to Reo, so she can pump up a judge.” She smiled. “I’ll owe you one.”
“I’ll collect more carefully next time. Actually, free pass on it. I said I wanted to bugger the bastard, so there’s the satisfaction.”
“Hold that thought,” she said when her comm signaled. “Dallas.”
“Sir, Officer Trace. Cohen just left the residence with a small suitcase. He got in a Rapid. We’re tailing.”
“Keep on him, Officer. Let me know where he lands.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Gave him his walking papers,” Roarke assumed when she clicked off. “And good on her.”
“What does that even mean? Who needs papers to walk? But he’s on the move, so we should do the same. I’ll get Reo on tap, let her know you’re sending hard data for the warrant.”
“All right then.” He rose, then frowned. “I think it must be like firing someone. The pink slip sort of thing. You know, you’re done, start walking.”
“Then why papers?” she insisted. “A pink slip—and nobody gets an actual pink slip—is a paper, not papers. So a walking paper. Why not say she told him to take a hike? And that doesn’t work, either, because he got in a cab.”
He decided he wanted a second glass of wine for the work, poured one, smiled at her. “I adore you, Eve.”
“Yeah, yeah, start walking.”
13
Cohen didn’t go far. He checked into a hotel about ten blocks from the residence.