Because he recognized misery when it was staring him in the face, Feeney scowled, drilled a finger into McNab’s skinny chest. “I’m not talking about it.”
“Neither am I.” McNab hunched his shoulders and steamed off in a sulk.
“Peabody.” Eve jumped in before her aide had the chance to speak. “Unload and file all discs, book this room for the scheduled time.”
“Yes, sir.” She had to swallow, hated the fact that the simple act was audible and painful.
“Check in with Monroe, see if he has any more information on Roles. Then stand by in your work area until I contact you.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eve waited until Peabody had finished gathering what she needed and had moved out of the room like a droid. “This is really going to suck,” she decided. “Just listen, he says. A lot he knows about it.”
Doing her best to push Peabody out of her mind, Eve sat down and made the call to the federal building.
“Stowe.”
“Dallas. I need a meet. Just you and me. Tonight.”
“I’m busy, and have no interest in meeting you tonight or anytime. Do you think I’m an idiot? Do you think I couldn’t figure out who fed that reporter?”
“She eats just fine on her own.” Eve waited a beat. “Winifred C. Cates” was all she said, and watched Stowe go pale.
“What about her?” she returned, with admirable composure. “She’s one of Yost’s likelies.”
“Tonight, Stowe, unless you want me to go into detail over the ’link.”
“I can’t get away until seven.”
“Nineteen-thirty hours, the Blue Squirrel. I’m sure a smart federal agent can find the address.”
Stowe lowered her voice, moved closer to the screen. “Just you?”
“That’s right. For the moment. Seven-thirty, Agent Stowe. Don’t keep me waiting.”
She broke transmission, checked her wrist unit and did her best to gauge her time. Feeling slightly less apprehensive than she might have if going in to face a team of chemi-heads armed with laser scalpels, she walked down to the squad room, detoured into her office for her jacket, then out to Peabody’s cubicle.
“You tag Charles?”
“Yes, sir. His client met the man purporting to be Roles at a Sotheby’s auction last winter. He outbid her on a painting. A Masterfield landscape, circa 2021. She believes it went for two million four.”
“Sotheby’s. It’s after five. They’d be closed. Okay, you’re with me.” She started out, waited for Peabody to fall in step. “Did she have impressions?”
“Charles said she found Roles impeccably mannered, knowledgeable about art, and elegantly aloof. She admitted she’d tried to wrangle an invitation to see the painting once he had his displayed, but he didn’t even nibble. Charles says she’s a stunner, a real babe, mid-thirties, and falling-down rich. Since most men would have jumped at the chance, she figured he was into men. But when she tried out the chatter—you know, who they might know, what club he patronized, and all that—he evaded and slipped away from her.”
“If she’s such a babe, why does she need to hire an LC?”
“I guess because Charles is a babe, and there isn’t any danger of strings. He’ll do whatever she wants during the scheduled time.” Peabody sighed as they stepped out into the garage. “People hire or hang with LCs for a lot of reasons. It isn’t always about sex.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll see what we can dig up in Sotheby’s tomorrow.” That, she thought, might be something to tap Roarke about.
“Yes, sir. Where are we going now?”
“Up to you.” Eve opened her car door, stood looking at Peabody over the roof. “Want to go get drunk?”
“Sir?”
“I had a big mess-up with Roarke not that long ago. That was my choice. It’s a pretty good temporary cure.”