One glance at Feeney’s face told the story.
“You got it.”
“We got it.”
“Cochran Estates, Long Island.” As Willowby spoke, she sent the flirt eye in Trueheart’s direction. Eve could feel his blush from ten feet away.
“Big wedding and event venue,” Callendar put in. “If you’ve got pockets as deep as the Grand Canyon. Private shuttle strip’s a convenient two-minute drive away.”
“The shuttle strip and the estate are in blackout since yesterday, and through tomorrow.”
“You figure it’s tonight.”
“Tonight, cocktails and hors d’oeuvres, musical entertainment at half-seven. Black-tie,” Roarke continued. “There will be swag bags.”
“Swag bags?”
“Attendees will receive a gift bag containing an exclusive, designed-for-the-event perfume, a pair of champagne flutes with emerald-green stems, and a bottle of Château Lafitte champagne.”
“That’s his brew.” Feeney jerked a thumb at Roarke.
“It is, yes. The auction begins at nine, where they’ll seed with a selection of other items. The main event’s scheduled for eleven, following a short break where desserts are offered and the Royal Suite can be viewed through a shockproof glass case. The bidding floor is three hundred.”
“That’s million,” McNab added.
“How the hell did you get all this? Swag bags?”
Roarke shrugged. “A bit of luck.”
“Consultant Dreamcake calls it luck. I call it genius.” Willowby beamed at him. “We were close, right on the edge of it. He tipped it over.”
“Genius luck then. Conference room.” She turned to Jenkinson. “Whitney, Lieutenant Lowenbaum, Reo. Contact and tell them we’re starting in five.”
She started out. “I need to see the venue, inside and out. Blueprints, security schematics. A rough idea of the number of attendees would be helpful.”
“They sent out two dozen invites,” Feeney told her as they walked. “Twenty-two said hell yeah. And they can bring the plus-one thing, and their own security—that’s limited to two.”
“That’s maximum eighty-eight,” Roarke said to save her the math. “You can expect half that many again including the auction holders’ security, the servers—unless they’re using droids there—musicians, and so on.”
“This Cochran Estates. Wouldn’t it have its own people?”
“They’ve been paid twelve million to turn over the estate for three days. The Royal Group—a handy shell company—booked it with a fifty percent deposit in March.”
Eve frowned at Roarke. “I take it that’s more than they’d usually make on an event.”
“Midweek, yes. Their major take comes Friday to Sunday, though they do quite well otherwise. But for this, they had no outlay but the venue itself.”
She paused at the conference room door. “Just curious. About how much are the bad guys shelling out to pull this off?”
“A hundred, a hundred and fifty million, and that already recouped, or nearly, with the entrance fees. Take you and your team out of the mix? They could expect to make a profit of triple their outlay. Likely more.”
“Add bragging rights,” Willowby said. “Pull it off? You’ve got a rep for doing the mega, doing it classy. Hey, Peabody. Whoa, mama! Cinnamon buns!”
“Jacko’s. Roarke had them brought in. And I already had one. I couldn’t help it.”
“Who could, who would?” And Willowby aimed straight for them, with McNab and Callendar on her heels.
“Seriously?”
