“Some quit while ahead,” he reminded her, but she shook her head.
“Not these two. And it’ll be quick, that’s pattern, too. Bang, bang, bang. How much did you pay for the painting you’ve got?”
“Happily I looked that up as I thought you might ask. Fifty thousand euros. It’s insured now for a hundred twenty-five USD. He was moving up.”
“How much do you figure it’s worth now to one of those sick bastard types?”
Roarke took a considering sip of beer as he calculated. “I expect I could sell it through standard means tomorrow—after the media play—for a quarter million. Through less standard means, if I waited a few days more? As it’s learned just how many of his originals exist? Half a million.”
“A hell of a return quick and fast, right? And if you have multiples, some or likely most of which you stole—so no outlay—potentially millions.”
“Smart money would wait a few years, let the legend ripen—and as he had exceptional talent, died young and tragically, it will. Then you’d turn a painting like ours for several million.”
“They won’t wait. Maybe—maybe—they’ll hold on to one or two because they like to gamble. But it’s quick profit first. The quick score. They’ve had feelers out, or they’re putting them out now.
“Sell the stocks, sell the painting,” she mused, “take the cash. Pure profit. That’s where we have to focus. It’s the greed that’ll get them. That’s the focus until I can figure out their next target.”
“The problem with tracking the stocks is the use of side sales, day-trading, numbered accounts, working it offshore and off-planet. And selling off in smallish, strategic bits rather than large lumps. The large lumps are fairly easy to track back to their sources—even considering all the above. And I’ve found those.”
“Why haven’t I heard that before this?” Eve demanded.
“Because they’re going to lead you nowhere. Like your rental vans, they’ve proven legitimate, and nothing that crosses your investigation. Still, I have them for you. You’ve been a bit busy today.”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry. Thanks. I mean it.”
“And what is it besides fatigue and frustration weighing down on you?”
“Eighteen dead’s a lot of weight.”
“What else?”
She drew a breath. “I told Peabody Nadine could take her to the Oscar thing. And McNab. How you and Leonardo are handling the wardrobe part of it. So she—Jesus.”
After staring into her glass, she put the half glass of beer aside, pushed up. “She didn’t say anything at first, then she does the stand-up thing. Can’t leave in the middle of an investigation, so I knocked that back. Then she started blubbering. Just blubbering, and telling me how this is some lifelong fantasy dream deal for her. She’s out of orbit about it, so out of orbit she even shuts up about it so she doesn’t piss me off.”
She hissed, dragged her hands through her hair. “Then, boom.”
“And that changes things.”
“Christ, yes. She already brought it up—job comes first. No whining about it.”
“That’s our Peabody,” he replied.
“I said I wasn’t going to think about it yet—we just keep going. But the job comes first. If we can’t wrap this up, or if they hit again? I can’t cut her loose. I’m not just her friend, she’s not just my partner. I’m the boss. I have to do what I have to do.”
“You do, yes.” He rose. “The job, the dead, the victims all come first. She’d never question that. She’s a good cop, so they all come first for her as well. But—”
“There can’t be any buts on this,” Eve began.
“But,” he repeated, moving to her, laying his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll be your Peabody.”
“It’s not—”
“I’m not a cop,” he interrupted. “But I have certain skills, and in this particular case, certain connections and insights that should be useful. They’re yours while you need them.”
“You’ve got your own work to deal with.”
“There’s nothing that can’t wait. Your job may not come first for me, but you do. And Peabody, Nadine, Mavis? They matter a great deal. Beyond that, the victims matter to me as well. You’d do what needs doing, and you’d carry the weight. You’d carry it longer than Peabody, who’d never blame you or the job. So I’ll be your Peabody.”