He just nodded along with her. Because they had that rhythm, she knew he understood she had to tread carefully.
“Makes sense to me. I knew about it because it was a bfd at the time it got plucked. We’ll set up the sneak, keep tabs on any chatter. You get Willowby in, and she’s got plenty of aces up her sleeve.”
He pointed at the board, at the murder weapon. “That’s what bashed him? Hell of a thing. Just sitting around?”
“In the office, on a kind of tray that lit up.”
“Weapon of opportunity then. Victim wanders in before you’re done. Grab, bash, go. But he had to know—or if a hire, that one had to know—about the vault.”
“That’s number one. Who knew and how. It wasn’t that tricky a job,Feeney. Their security hadn’t been updated. Decent but not tough to undermine. The vault—old. Some skill required, sure, but it doesn’t strike me any of it took a master. Not like plucking a Corot out of the Met, or emeralds out of the Tate.”
He scratched through his wiry hair. “Yeah, I’m with you there. Add in somebody who panics easy enough to kill. Or doesn’t care about adding murder to the mix. Well.”
He got to his feet. “How about you top this off, and I go up and arrange the sneak before I head home?”
She got him more coffee. “Interpol’s going to contact you.”
“No problem. I’ll get back to you when I’ve got something to get back to you about.”
“Appreciate it.”
When he left, Eve took the desk and started the run on Joy Barrister while she looked over Peabody’s data on the housekeeper.
Uma Acker grew up in Yonkers, where her mother still lived. Her parents divorced when she was twelve and her younger sister eight. Her father lived in Wyoming and listed himself as a lieutenant colonel in the True Patriots militia.
Because Peabody was thorough, she’d listed Lloyd Acker’s numerous arrests, including a spousal battery charge a few months before the divorce.
Uma Acker got in a couple years of community college while working for the cleaning service the Barristers still used. Then began her employment—first as an assistant housekeeper—at Barrister House.
No marriages, no offspring. No criminal.
Eve made a note to have Roarke dig into the financials.
She heard Peabody’s boot-clomping approach, glanced over.
“I just sent you Henry Barrister’s data. It’s a lot. Baxter and Trueheart are still in the field. I can do another run, stick until they get back.”
“No, take off. I’m going to keep at it awhile, then I’m taking it home. I’m running the sister now.”
“Anything hits, tag me.”
With a nod, Eve turned back to her screen.
Joy Barrister, age fifty-two—fancy private schools like her brother. Harvard MBA like her brother. At thirty-one she married Anton Sampson. The marriage lasted three years. No offspring.
Sampson, age fifty-two, part of the Sampson-Burnett family who made their fortune with Burnett Wine and Spirits, remarried two years after the divorce, remained married, had three offspring.
Joy lived in Barrister House until her marriage, and during the separation moved into the Barrister-owned condo, which she’d inherited in full upon her father’s death.
After college, she’d officially joined the family firm, full-time as a VP in accounts, domestic, and now stood as chief financial officer.
To the tune of one-point-eight million a year, plus bonuses.
She toggled back to check Nathan Barrister’s annual salary. Two-point-six.
And made a note to consult Roarke on the pay gap.
She was on the board of a couple of charities, served as treasurer for the Barrister Family Foundation—and that one brought in another eight hundred K a year.
