New York had it all.
“Ms. Fancy,” Eve repeated as the light changed. “Is that an actual name or one Henry just hooked on her? Even if it was the name she went by, that doesn’t mean it was her real name.”
She pulled into the garage, parked. “I’m tossing the name at Abernathy. Maybe they have a file on that name.”
“He’s in the media deal, right?”
“Yeah, I’ll toss it then. Yancy?”
“He’s in the field now.” Together, they walked to the elevator. “He’s got another ahead of us at one, but he’ll plug them in after that.”
“Good enough.” Eve stepped in, stuck her hands in her pockets, jiggled loose change. “Here’s how I see it. Fancy Blonde’s kept in touch. He’s a prime mark, so she keeps a hand in. She realizes he’s slipping some, mentally. An even better mark now.”
Eve shuffled back as the elevator stopped and cops shuffled on.
“Gets herself the invite to stay a few days. Maybe she’s just in it for whatever she can charm him out of. Shopping, macaroons, pressed panties.”
A uniform glanced back at her. “Pressed panties? Is that a dessert or something?”
“Or something.” Since the doors opened again, Eve got off for the glides. “Maybe she figures she can snag something in his will, or get a quick marriage out of him. How bad could it be when he’s over a hundred and losing it? And frail—they’ve all said frail. But.”
“He shows her the vault. I can see that,” Peabody agreed. “But if she’s on the grift, why doesn’t she just slip a couple things into her shopping bags, then book it?”
“Can’t do that. He might notice. He’s losing it, but these are big fuckingdeals, and if he sees something’s gone, it points at her. He’s got a lot of money, Peabody, a lot of contacts. Maybe they even have some mutual acquaintances. He could find her. It’s better, smarter, to wait. How long has he got? If you’ve got any talent, or know somebody who does, you hack into his medicals.”
“Why didn’t she talk him into marrying her?”
“Maybe he wouldn’t bite. Or maybe she didn’t want the attention. She’d get plenty as number five, seven decades younger and to an obviously sliding man. This way?”
She paused at the top of the glide on their level. “You take what you’ve squeezed out of him, wait, and plan. Maybe you know how to get into the vault, maybe you don’t. But you want the big prize. So you wait, and you plan. He dies pretty quickly after your visit, so best to wait a little more, and get that plan firmed up good. The staff lives in, and with the estate deal going on, there’s probably people in and out.”
“Then the son and his family move in.”
“Gotta wait, pick your time. Does Fancy Blonde know how to jam security and so on? Maybe, maybe not. If not, you need someone who does. And you need a way to get the payoff from the big prize.”
“Auction.”
“If she’s the operator I think she is, she knows she can’t flaunt those emeralds. She can’t keep them, but she can pocket a hell of a lot selling them.”
“It sounds right.”
“It’s the best line we’ve got, so we keep tugging.”
She walked into Homicide, into a full bullpen, and Jenkinson’s tie.
Today’s had bananas, dozens of screaming-yellow bananas clutched in the grips of dozens of grinning, pop-eyed monkeys.
“Jesus Christ” was all she could manage.
“My guy got a new shipment in for the fall.” When her detective sergeant lifted the tie, wagged it, the pop eyes jiggled.
“Socks, too.” Reineke, his partner, hiked up a pants leg to reveal grinning, pop-eyed monkeys and bananas.
“It’s a sickness. I swear to God, a sickness.”
“Heard you caught a big one, LT.”
“Yeah.” She pressed her fingers to her eyes, then aimed them over the tie into Jenkinson’s face. “So I don’t have time to—ha—monkey around. Baxter, cold case?”
