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“Why kill him?”
“Maybe he got greedy, wanted a bigger cut. Maybe he didn’t like having his son’s friends murdered, or got nervous. One way or the other, he was a liability—and a handy goat. I buy the note, the scene, I pack up my toys and walk away. Putting the finger on this guy also smears the accounting firm. Apologies, sorry about that, but the Bullock Foundation will require a new firm. Too much scandal, bad for the image. Their lawyers demand their files, and there’s no record at the firm of any fraud or whisper thereof. All parties involved in Sloan, etc.—as far as we know—are now dead.”
“Clean and tidy.”
“The killer likes it that way. Two strangulations, one hanging. Same basic method. He takes the droid in case there’s any record in the banks of his visiting this residence. Because he’s been here before. He knew his way around.”
“And came prepared,” Roarke prompted.
“Oh, yeah. Comes to the door. Let’s have a chat. How about a drink with that? Slips a tranq into the vic’s wine. Let me help you upstairs. Gets him up there, lays him on the floor. Stuns him if he has to. Writes the note on the computer. Mistake there, I figure, because he puts too much of himself into it. Lost my soul, going to the
big H. Fixes the rope, hauls the woozy or stunned vic onto the chair, gives it a kick, and watches the show.
“He’d watch,” she mused. “Like he watched Natalie and Bick. Watch the face, the eyes. Randall kicked, kicked off the slippers, grabbed at the rope. I’ve got what looks like rope fibers and tissue under the vic’s nails. Takes awhile. It’s not a quick death unless the neck breaks on the drop. He suffered, but I guess he earned it.”
She frowned at the now empty bedroom. “Might’ve had his own transpo, but that’s not an absolute. He could’ve come on public—subway’d work best, and taken the droid away by the same method if he deactivated all but its mobility.”
“So you’re looking for a man with a droid.”
She smiled a little. “Maybe.” She pulled out her ’link when it beeped. “Dallas.”
“It’s halftime, so I’m making this quick.”
She frowned at Feeney. “If you were making it quick, you’d have gotten back to me two hours ago.”
“Can’t do a locate if the ’link’s not in use, can I? I got the number.” And he read it off to her. “Put a tracer on that, but it wasn’t engaged until a few minutes ago, and then only for fifteen seconds.”
“You got a location?”
“Best I can give you is Upper East.”
“New York? The ’link’s in New York?”
“Yeah, where’d you expect it to be? Listen, Dallas, they got cheerleaders.”
“Who has cheerleaders?”
“The Liberties. I’m missing halftime.”
“For God’s sake, they’re young enough to be your kids. Your kids’ kids.”
“A man don’t watch a bunch of half-naked girls doing jumps and high kicks, he might as well be dead. You got what you need?”
“Yeah, yeah, and thanks. Keep the trace on, will you? Cheerleaders,” she grumbled when Feeney clicked hurriedly off. “Men have simple minds.”
“It’s not our minds that are simple,” Roarke corrected.
She had to laugh. “New York. Son of a bitch. They probably never left the city. Upper East. Hotel maybe, or a private residence. I need to run a check, see if the foundation or either Bullock or her son own or have interest in any properties in that area.”
“I can run that for you from home. Home’s where we’re going. You can write up your report on this just as easily from there,” he said, and took her arm before she could argue. “You need food, and so do I. You’re running on empty, Eve. I can see it in your eyes.”
“However I’m running, I need to move. I’d moved faster on this, Randall Sloan would still be alive and I’d be closing this.”
She started for the door with him, then stopped. “Wait. Wait. A guy like Randall. He’d have insurance.” She turned a circle. Three-story house, she mused. Twelve rooms, and the solarium. Lots of places to hide insurance.
“He wasn’t stupid. The way he got Kraus to keep his name as account exec, but did the work himself. Something goes wrong, he just palms off the trouble on Kraus. Insurance.”
“The goat kept a backup goat in Kraus.”
