Baxter opened his eyes. He touched a finger to the side of his head in casual salute. “Been quiet, and we caught up on paperwork so pulled a cold one. My boy’s doing some research on it. I’m giving it some thinking time.”
Since she often took her thinking time in the same position, she couldn’t bitch.
“Saw you caught one,” he continued, “so we put it on the board.”
She glanced over, saw Trueheart’s precise printing.
“B and E gone south. If you need extra hands or brain cells, we can put the cold one back on ice.”
“What’s the cold one?”
“Eight years cold. Woman mugged to death in Central Park. Looks like a mugging—struggle, she falls, cracks her head open on a rock. Looks that way, until you squint.”
“Keep on it.”
She went to her office, hit the AC for coffee, and drank some of it looking out her single, skinny window. Another position she favored for thinking time.
First question: How did the thief and/or whoever hired him, if hired, know about the vault and contents?
First answer: As a general rule, a secret’s only a secret if everybody who knows about it is dead.
Conclusion: Someone in the family let it slip to someone else. Maybe the estate lawyer knew about the vault all along. Or he just found out as stated, and someone in his office let it slip. The dead father confessed/bragged/let it slip on his deathbed. Or he told one of his several wives along the way. Or a fuck buddy. Or the staff knew more than they admitted.
Alternate conclusion: Someone in the household set it up so they could pocket a whole bunch of money. Or start their own secret collection.
Hire the thief—maybe through a broker. It would take time to set it all up for the break-in.
“And they’d need that,” Eve mused. “Can’t just go in, pocket a bunch of stuff. Gotta have the break-in, and it has to be real to pass the cop sniff test.”
Drinking coffee, she paced.
But why not schedule it when the family’s out? On a holiday, out for dinner and a show, something? No way, of course, to predict Barrister would come down with a cold, feel crappy, get up, and find the vault open.
Bad luck, she thought, and tight timing.
She sat to open the murder book, added what she’d learned from Morris. Then set up her board.
Before she started on her portion of the list, she mimicked Baxter, but kept her eyes open and on the board.
If the wife were involved, the timing shouldn’t have been so tight. If she knew the break-in would happen at that time, wouldn’t she have made damn sure her husband didn’t go anywhere near the office? Slip him a stronger sleep aid—simple enough—and keep an eye out in case.
If the murder was part of it, the timing hit wrong again. Leave him lying there until morning, or at least another hour or so. Then scream your ass off.
“Doesn’t work. Doesn’t fit, not really. And her story holds, right down the line.”
It wouldn’t stop Eve from doing a deeper run, then working her way through the rest of the family.
But she had to deal with a vault full of stolen property. And she had an idea on that.
She reached out, across the Atlantic, to Inspector Abernathy of Interpol.
When his face came on-screen, she thought he looked as pinched and snooty as ever, with a layer of the smooth over it. But she noticed he wore a casual shirt, and behind him some sort of bush with a bunch of little blue flowers bloomed.
“Lieutenant. There’s nothing you can say that will move me from my garden and into a train, a plane, or a car going anywhere.”
“Okay. Then I guess you wouldn’t be interested hearing about a vault full of stolen art and jewelry, much of which came from various points in Europe. Have a great weekend! Bye.”
“Wait. What vault?”
