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She shrugged, a careless and fluid gesture. “Didn’t get that far. Maybe with a little more time.”
“No problem poaching, then.”
Smiling, Lilah took another look at her nails. “He wasn’t married yet.”
“What’s the problem, Lilah? Can’t get a man of your own?”
Eve saw it, a flash of temper—hot and sharp. “Anyone I want.”
“Except Bick.”
“You’re a bitchy one, aren’t you?”
“You bet. Why Bick?”
“He was great to look at, going places, terrific body. Looked to me like he’d be good in the sack. We might’ve made a good team, in and out of it.”
“Must have pissed you off he wasn’t biting.”
“He didn’t want to bang me, that was his problem, and his loss. If you think I killed him and his little sweetheart because of that, you should check with your detective. I’ve got two alibis. Twins. Six-two, two-twenty, and dumb as posts. I wore both of them out, but it took me until after three in the morning.”
“What was Bick’s top account?”
“Wendall James, LLC,” she said without a second’s hesitation.
“And who gets that account now that he’s dead?”
Lilah angled her head. “Officially? It hasn’t been decided. Unofficially? I’ll make sure I do. I don’t have to kill for accounts, honey. I just have to be good at what I do.”
“I bet you are,” Eve said, and leaving it at that went back to join Peabody downstairs.
She’s what my granny calls a tough cookie.”
“I don’t get that.” Eve whipped away from the curb and headed back to Central. “If a cookie’s tough, you throw it away. She’s the type that knows how to stick.”
“It just means…never mind. You think she’s in it?”
“Could be. But that kind doesn’t have to kill to get what she wants. She’d use her brains, her sex, cheat, maybe steal. She could seduce someone else into doing her dirty work, but what’s the point here? Byson’s out of the picture, maybe she cops some of his accounts, gets promoted quicker. But why Copperfield? And she was primary target. What did you get on the alibis?”
“Okay, on Jake Sloan it’s DeLay, Rochelle. Twenty-five, single, works in Catering at the Palace.”
“She’s one of Roarke’s?”
“Well, sort of. Her father’s DeLay, hot-shot head chef at the Palace. She’s been employed there for about two years. No criminal.”
Eve hung a left. “We’ll drop by, confirm the alibi face-to-face. Next?”
“On Randall Sloan. Sasha Zinka and Lola Warfield. Forty-eight and forty-two respectively. Married for twelve years. Big money—generational money on Zinka. They’re Femme.”
“Which is?”
“Extreme high-end enhancements. The company was founded by Zinka’s great-grandfather, and remains one of the few independent companies of its size and scope. They own designer spas, where their products are used and sold. Few little brushes here and there on Zinka. Assault, property damage. Punched a cop.”
“Really?”
“No time served. Lots of big fines, a number of civil suits. Nothing in the last decade on her.”
“Youthful hijinks. Got a temper.”
