“But you don’t like it.”
“It doesn’t sit firm.” Hands in pockets, Eve shook her head. “None of it does, really. They’re a family. I look at the wife because you have to, and don’t see it. Where’s the motive? Same with the sister. Where’s the motive? They’re stupid rich, not that it stops anybody, but the ties? They come off tight and true. I get the same from the staff.”
“So the mysterious blonde.”
“Yeah. She’s in this. I need to find out how. But first I need to findher. I appreciate you looking into those medical records. You’ll be able to give me a better picture of how she played him.”
“Your report includes Detective Yancy working with the staff on a face.”
“Yeah, later today.”
“We can hope you’ll be able to ask her yourself just how she played him.”
“I’m counting on it. He was a player, a thief, and should’ve lived out his last years in a cage. But going after an old man whose mind’s slipped a few cogs? It’s just… slimy.”
“When you find her, I’d love to observe your interview.”
“I’ll let you know. Thanks for the time.”
Chapter Fourteen
She made her way back to Homicide, and noted Jenkinson and his tie, Reineke and his socks weren’t at their desks.
“They caught one right after you left,” Baxter told her. “DB in a dumpster, Alphabet City.”
“Okay. Peabody?”
“No luck yet. Still looking.”
“Keep at it. We’ve got about an hour before the media conference.”
In her office, she got coffee, sat. She put her boots on the desk and studied her board. A minute later, she got up, added a sheet that said simply:Fancy Blonde.
“You’re in it.”
She sat, boots up again.
Must’ve tapped him off and on over the years. Such an easy mark.
The marriage, or lack of it, bugged her a little. He’d already gone there four times. Why not lure him into five? Big potential payday there.
Reasons why not? Couldn’t quite stomach sexing it up with a man oldenough to be her great-grandfather. Whatever marriage paid out, it also cut down on some freedom. A good attorney, which he’d have, is going to put a rock-solid prenup in place.
She’d check on that.
Other fish to fry, lambs to fleece. Harder to do that when you’re married. Not impossible, just harder. And if he catches you there, you get the boot, and the well runs dry.
“You didn’t want to be the fifth Ms. Henry Barrister. Just wanted whatever you could squeeze out of him when you felt like squeezing. Or needed to.”
Because it nagged at her, she contacted Lacey O’Ryan again.
“Lieutenant. Is this important? It’s my morning to make breakfast. I’m a very nervous cook.”
“I’ll make it quick. I wondered if you could pinpoint where you first saw the young blonde—your last straw, you said.”
“As it happens. Damn it! This just looks like goo! I’m trying to make pancakes from scratch.”
“Why?”
