“Gotta figure they’d go low-tech.” Callendar slurped more fizzy. “Cap says invites, in the hand, private messenger.”
“Going to be a select group,” McNab added.
“Like the guy who had it in the vault.” Willowby blew another bubble. Puff it out, snap, pull it back in. “Fancy invite.”
“Fancy,” Eve murmured.
“Sure. All gold, engraved, all that shit. Time, date, location. Location’s probably fancy, too.”
“Château, villa, mansion, castle.” McNab shrugged. “And one of those black-tie deals. Gotta set the stage. But you also gotta know who’d buy in.”
“Not just the ones rolling in it,” Feeney put in. “But you curate, right?”
“You have to know who’d pay—maybe has before—for something they couldn’t wear in public, couldn’t brag about having.” Eve nodded. “I’ve got that.”
“There’s where we whittle it down.” Feeney picked up cold cop coffee, frowned into it.
“How about I get you a fizzy, Cap?”
“Yeah.” Nodding at McNab, Feeney set the coffee down. “Lemon. I’m feeling sour. We put watches on those who fit the bill. Interpol’s a big hand up on that. Auction’s going to want cash or direct wire. Something like this, you probably have to lay down a deposit before the auction. Like an entrance fee, you know? Cover charge.”
“Proof you’re a serious buyer. Okay. You watch accounts.”
“Means you’ve got to find the ones that aren’t on the up-and-up. I don’t suppose Roarke has any free time.”
“Mmm. Sizzle.” Willowby just wiggled her eyebrows at Eve’s stony stare.
“Ask him. Meanwhile, I’m looking for a blonde. A looker, mid-thirties. Has gone by Ms. Fancy. I don’t know if that’s her name, an alias, a nickname. She was cozying up to Henry Barrister before he died.”
“You figure she found out about the vault.”
“I figure just that. She’s an operator. She started working him when she was about twenty, so she knows how to play the long game. I think she’s in this.”
“If we find anybody who fits, you’ll be the first. Thanks,” he added as McNab brought him a fizzy. “I gotta tell you, when we pin this down, it’s most likely going to lead to a bust at the auction. If it ain’t happening in New York, it’s going to be Interpol’s bust.”
“I want who bashed Nathan Barrister’s head in. Interpol or the locals wherever can have the shiny.”
“They’re putting the time and brains in, too.” Willowby sighed. “But it’s a wheeze deal. Some of these assholes would’ve maybe bought from the sex slave ring we busted up. I’d like a shot at them.”
“Interpol busts them for this, you give that a push.”
“That’s the plan. How’s Dorian?”
“Good. Safe, in school, and by all accounts taking this chance at a decent life seriously. You could go by An Didean sometime, see for yourself. You’re part of what gave her that chance.”
“Yeah. I wanted to give her some time to settle in first. I think I’ll go by there. I’m going to drop by Homicide when I take a break here. Check out the sizzle of Trueheart.”
“Jesus, why do you tell me this?” Eve pressed fingers to her twitching eye. “I’ve got a meet with Mira. Keep me up on this, and don’t forget the blonde.”
Before the doors closed behind her, music blasted.
She took the glides to Mira.
Private auction, she thought. The only thing that made sense. In person, with a bunch of morally empty rich people. The private, personal messenger–delivered invitations worked, too. Classy.
She could imagine it. Black tie and sleek gowns. Champagne and caviar in a location that also reeked of money.
And wouldn’t that atmosphere, the competition between the morally empty rich, kick the bidding up?
